What We Leave Behind
by Jedi Skysinger
Summary: Submitted for your approval, a journey into a Burn Notice Twilight Zone-AU in which Michael never reconnects with Fiona until after his burn notice is resolved and the organization that burned him is completely dismantled.
1. Sam

"_**All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."**__ Anatole France (1921)_

-00000-

_Leesburg Executive Airport at Godfrey Field, Leesburg, Virginia, USA, December 2015, 19:00 Hours_

"You sure about this, Mikey?" he whispered.

"Sam," came the low reply meant only for their ears.

It can be a little disconcerting when someone can communicate in monosyllables and be perfectly understood.

"Okay, brother, your call."

But since the taciturn spy and the gregarious SEAL had worked together for over twenty five years, those things can happen.

Former Commander Axe stood up from the small table in the cramped airport bar and turned back towards the two women waiting expectantly in the door way.

"Sorry, ladies," his grin was apologetic. "We actually don't have time before we have to get to our connecting flight. But, hey, it was great running into you guys! Certainly didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah, we didn't either. Our flight got bumped from Dulles and re-routed here. Overload holiday traffic, you know?" the blonde explained. "And we didn't expect to get in this early either. The second half of the shoot was cancelled. Maybe next time you're in town-?"

"Absolutely! If I'd known you two were in town, I _would_ have arranged for an earlier flight. But you know how it is in the NTSB, there's always an accident somewhere."

The brunette sighed. "Looks like it was bad. Steve looks really upset."

He looked back over his shoulder at his friend seated behind the tiny round table, appearing to stare intently at the condensation running down his untouched drink.

"Yeah, you know, Steve. He gets like that." He leaned in towards the pair and said in a quiet voice, "Mr. Remington takes his job very seriously."

The blonde leaned in herself and gave 'Mr. Finley' a peck on the cheek. "Okay, Chuck, next time. You promise?"

"Scouts honor!"

Both the ladies laughed and waved across the room. Sam smiled wider and waved back because he knew Mike wouldn't.

"Damn!" the blonde swore as they turned and walked towards baggage claim. "Here, I thought we'd hit the jackpot getting bumped. Man, the cab fare is going to suck!"

The dark haired woman shrugged. "Steve didn't look like he was really up for it. Whatever investigation they're going to must be-"

"Pfft!" her companion returned. "Is there any such thing as a good plane accident? Seriously! How do you put up with him, anyway? He's always so intense."

"I know," her friend sighed and smiled dreamily. "VERY intense."

"Chuck makes me laugh. Among other things."

They both giggled.

"To each her own!" they said together.

"There is one odd thing about Steve," the brunette confessed as she glanced back over her shoulder at the dark bar. The people within it were indistinguishable now.

"One?"

She smacked her roommate on the arm. "Seriously, he won't kiss me."

The platinum-tressed woman raised her eyebrows in response, hefting the enormous carry-on bag back up on her shoulder.

"On the mouth, I mean," she clarified. "I mean, he does EVERYTHING else, but he's never kissed me."

"Maybe I should let you trade with me the next time the boys are in town," the blonde offered. "Chuck is a lipless wonder!" She laughed at her own joke. "Did you ever ask him about it?"

"He said his mother told him never to kiss anyone he wasn't married to."

"Like I said, intense. Intensely weird."

"I think he's hurting," the brunette concluded quietly.

"You're such a sucker for those wounded warrior-types. No wonder Chuck picked him out for you."

"Be serious," she requested.

"Never!" her friend laughed.

They turned the corner and they were gone.

-0000-

"You owe me, Mikey," Sam mock-complained when the women were out of sight.

"On me."

"Never have to tell me twice, brother."

When Mr. Axe returned to the table with dos Dos Equis, Mike still hadn't touched his drink or moved a millimeter. He sat straight up in the chair with his back to the wall surreptitiously scanning the ill lit confines of the airport lounge.

"So, are you going to let me in on the mission parameters _before_ we hit the ground?" he whispered.

"Cashier. Janitor."

Sam looked around the bar nonchalantly and realized his friend had expertly picked out the surveillance team that was watching them.

"In fifteen."

The older man settled back into his chair and did his own version of people-watching, which was to check out everyone while still keeping an eye on his partner.

It seemed like the older Mike got, the less he said. Not that his sense of humor had disappeared. It had just gotten noticeably darker, sort of going from gallows humor to electric chair- no, make that lethal injection- humor; they were still based out of South Florida after all. It didn't matter. He could always talk enough for the both of them.

Sam had been relieved that they were on the move again. This burn notice business was apparently finally wrapped up after seven _long_ years, but it had been bloody and painful, exacting a high price.

At first, Sam had stayed in the military after the burn notice had been issued. He had pretended to distance himself from Mike, while secretly helping from the inside. Lucy Chen, former Westen trainee and now high dollar security consultant, had secretly helped him from the outside. It had worked for a while.

He'd always hoped that Mikey and Lucy would end up together, instead of his buddy pining for that Irish wild woman he'd left behind decades ago. While Lucy was more than willing and he was sure Mike had succumbed to the basic needs of being a man with her, Mr. Westen had never let a connection deeper than friendship happen. Sam swigged his beer. In the end, it was probably for the best they'd never really gotten close. Lucy had been killed and Sam had been dishonorably discharged. Round one to the organization.

Michael had seduced his new handler, Carla, to gain the advantage. Mr. Axe shook his head remembering what a wild ride that had been. He never doubted that the burned spy would succeed in the endeavor. Mikey could be wickedly charming when he wanted to be.

Management had been pretty pissed when he found out she'd been compromised. Lucky for them, the old man had been jacked up enough to kill her himself instead of Mike. Her replacement had been even trickier to wrangle, but somehow his friend had managed it. He'd found out that he and Victor were actually on the same side. It had been no healthier for Mr. Stecker-Epps than it had been for Carla. Round two had been a draw.

The cashier came over and asked them if they wanted another drink. Michael waved her off without really looking at her.

Sam studied his long-time partner with renewed interest. He hadn't been this quiet and brooding since that business with Vaughn at the abandoned hotel. The ex-covert operative had planned a suicide mission to draw them out, feinting an all-out assault on Vaughn's position, so Jesse could escape with the NOC list.

But Mr. Porter had made a connection with Mike's mother that his buddy had never achieved himself. God knows, Maddy was the only one who could have kept the younger man from killing her son when Jesse found out it was her boy that had burned him, even if it was unintentional.

Jesse had decided to escape with the NOC list and Madeline.

Sam had shown up with the cavalry, but it had taken time to convince Congressman Cowley. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the sight of Jesse being shot dead and Mike charging like an enraged bull, barreling towards a hail of automatic weapons fire like it was raining something other than lead.

It was like that scene in Tombstone. His friend had gotten shot a few more times than Kurt Russell had, though most of them had been superficial and he didn't even seem to feel it. Vaughn—well, he had ended up with _many_ more holes in him than Powers Boothe had. The dark man had made one bullet-riddled corpse; so much for questioning him. Round three to them, though it didn't feel like much of a victory at Jesse's funeral.

The former SEAL ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair and wondered why it hadn't turned all completely white years ago.

As costly as it was, this and the NOC list had finally gotten Mike back in with the CIA. It had finally gotten him the answers he'd wanted. He'd finally found out who was behind it all and they had been closing in on Management, the elusive Anson Fullerton and the ragged remains of their organization.

But wounded animals always bite the hardest and his CIA handlers, first Max and then Danni, had gotten murdered in the process; more victims in their battle with the organization that had burned his friend.

It had looked like the battle was going to claim Nate Westen and his young family as well. Somehow they had been discovered, despite their new identities in protective custody.

That was the most worried Sam Axe had ever been since he had won the battle with Larry Sizemore for Michael's soul years ago. He looked at this dark haired friend stoically surveying the room and ended up finishing his beer in almost one gulp.

It had been a struggle before Larry had 'died' to keep Mike from going over to the dark side. Whenever the three of them had been together, in and out of the field, Commander Axe could almost visualize his white wings and halo and Larry's pointy horns and pitchfork as they bantered back and forth over Mr. Westen.

Sam couldn't have been happier when he found out Mr. Sizemore had gotten retired from CIA service with an old school burn notice. Better yet, no one else had gotten hurt in the explosion. Too bad the sonuvabitch couldn't have stayed dead.

And then came the Ireland assignment.

Fortunately for them both, Sam _did_ have buddies everywhere. Rayna Kopec had once been a colleague and lover of his very early on in his Naval career as well as working with Agent Westen in the former Soviet Union. They were just plain lucky she had become well placed in the CIA. Well placed enough that she was able to get Michael assigned as a permanent CIA liaison to Sam's SEAL team instead of being forcibly retired under Section Eight.

Until he got burned, that is.

It had been one helluva fight to keep Mike from going off the reservation with Larry when the hunt for the bastards who'd burned him had gotten intense and excruciating. But, in the end, his former mentor had seriously misjudged his apprentice when Mr. Sizemore had thought he could just eliminate the competition.

Sam had smiled, really smiled, when Michael had turned the gun on Larry instead; though admittedly Mr. Axe's life had flashed before his eyes momentarily before his rival had collapsed with a bullet hole between _his_ eyes and a very surprised look on _his_ face.

"Wheels up," Mr. Westen said, effectively breaking his reverie.

"Whatever you say, partner."

-0000-

Once they were in the private jet that Director Raines had so thoughtfully provided, Michael answered the question before it could be asked.

"I called Sean Glenanne."

For one of the few times in his life, Sam Axe was speechless. He just whistled long and low. It echoed around the air tight cabin.

If he'd called Sean, then it really was over. He could see Mike struggling with the emotions churning just below the surface.

"He said that if it was finished now, then I needed to come and attend to some family business. Wouldn't say any more than that. Just gave me a place and time."

"Does it have to do with Fiona?"

Mike tried to glare at him but failed miserably.

"I can only assume," he said so softly Sam almost couldn't hear him.


	2. Mike

"_**That man is prudent who neither hopes nor fears anything from the uncertain events of the future**_." _Anatole France _

-00000-

_Leesburg Executive Airport at Godfrey Field, Leesburg, Virginia, USA, December 2015, 19:05 Hours_

Mr. Westen watched surreptitiously with ill concealed disinterest as his friend explained their unavailability to entertain them to the two women in the entrance of the dark airport bar. He saw the brunette try to catch his attention as she leaned around "Mr. Finley's" shoulder from the corner of his eye. Had he been in the mood for such company, Michael could have been pleased by the coincidence that had brought them together.

Of all the ladies on Sam's list of regulars for the two of them, she was the easiest to be with. She understood the rules, what was and wasn't allowed in bed and in conversation, and had accepted them with reasonable grace. She kept her suspicions and her sympathy well concealed to anyone but a trained operative and he was grateful for that. Being a good sex partner was all he had to offer in exchange.

He wasn't anyone's lover.

Not anymore.

Not since _her_.

He had gone back to thinking of sex as just another reality of life, like drinking, eating or sleeping; something that needed to be done with a certain regularity or problems would result. It was a necessary habit to fall back into, although it hadn't been easy to do so once he'd had a taste of making love.

The loudspeakers in the dank little room blared out an Aerosmith tune he remembered from middle school that seemed appropriate for the situation.

Michael sighed and flashed a brief glance at Sam's back as he stood in the doorway watching their potential companions walk away. They were on a private plane and could've have left any time he wanted to actually; just a change of flight plan required to accomplish the task. But he'd been apart from _her_ long enough and he wasn't going to be diverted any longer, especially not for that.

_Dream on, dream on, dream until your dream comes true_.

Mike never realized in all those years, sixteen in total before he'd arrived in Dublin, that what he'd had with _her_ was what he'd been looking for in all those sexual encounters. He'd started young, even by Miami standards; he'd been fourteen and the girl was nineteen. It was a way to get attention that was positive instead negative, a way to connect intimately with another person without unnecessary strings attached. It was also a way to feel affection that didn't necessarily include some attempt at emotional manipulation.

There had been plenty of girls his age just looking for a good time. It was South Florida in the early eighties after all, where spring breakers from Ft. Lauderdale to Miami made every effort to recreate Roman orgies all along "The Strip" on A1A. Although the sex and alcohol consumption were probably comparable to those ancient bacchanals, he imagined that the food and the drugs were better in his day.

Still, the older he had gotten, the more that young Mr. Westen had preferred to pursue older women. On the whole, they better understood the nature of the relationship he was seeking; though they came with their own attendant risks, including jumping out of windows or leaving without all of one's clothing to avoid getting caught.

Being with someone who had a decade or so on him usually meant a condo on the beach instead of the back seat of a stolen car. It did have its perks and it had left him with an appreciation for expensive clothing. He understood even then the importance of appearances in perfecting your cover albeit used to accomplish a different mission then.

As the voice of Steven Tyler gave way to Steve Perry, it put him in mind of one woman in particular whose company he'd sought out. She'd been a high dollar criminal attorney who'd arranged to scrub his record clean. It was a much easier thing to do back in the day than now. He would have never gotten into the Rangers, much less the CIA, with his history of lawlessness intact.

Michael had fallen into what he'd thought was love once in high school and she'd betrayed him. After that, he'd put up yet another impermeable barrier around his wounded heart. There was more than enough physical, mental and emotional pain at home already without providing any more opportunities for anguish to invade one of the few areas of his life where he could feel good. The Army had done little to change his views and his first years as an operative, particularly under the tutelage of Larry Sizemore, had only reinforced them.

-00000-

"You owe me, Mikey," Sam had groused when he returned to the table.

"On me."

"Never have to tell me twice, brother." Mr. Axe scooped up the two twenties from the dark glass table top and headed towards the bar.

Mike focused on the cashier, who was also acting as bartender. She was definitely one of the people watching. He cast his glance around the poorly lit room looking for another. The space was cramped, but sparsely populated. For someone at his clearance level, there would be at least a two person team. Taking down the organization who had burned him had given him a great deal of freedom and latitude, but he knew that wouldn't stop Raines from keeping a close eye on them.

If it was Raines' people watching them, that is. As Sam chatted up the cashier, it occurred to him that she looked a lot like the other Sam that had been in his life, except for the bad dye job.

_Samantha __Kees_

She had been like all the women in his life before _her,_ all rolled into one. The lies were easy, the sex was easy, the way they spent time together was easy, both on and off the job. The reason they were together was the same. "_I used her, she used me and neither one cared. We were just getting our share," _the lyric drifted through his brain in conflict with the music that was currently playing.

Samantha had been the epitome of all the night moves he'd made with other women. When she'd proposed to him, his first reaction had been 'what the hell.' He'd laughed at the time and then wove elaborate fabrications about what kind of nuptials they would have, concluding that most of the guests would try to steal the wedding gifts and that someone would probably start shooting before the reception was over.

When he had realized she was serious, then _they_ were over.

She'd tried to reconnect with him, after duping him into helping her out of her jam with Tyler Brennan. He'd sent her packing with a stern lecture about considering the effects of her lifestyle on her child. It had infuriated him that she hadn't given a second thought to dragging her son into the world of a professional thief. He'd had enough trouble being raised by an amateur thief- c_on man, hustler, gambler, drunk, wife-beater__-_

Mr. Axe returned to the table with two beers, neither of which were for him. His long time partner eyed his untouched drink for a moment before settling into a chair next to where Mike sat with his back to the wall. From the speakers nestled somewhere out of sight in the dingy little lounge, Chester Bennington's voice began to fill the room.

"So, are you going to let me in on the mission parameters _before_ we hit the ground?" he whispered, leaning in close.

"Cashier. Janitor."

Sam looked around the bar, doing a good job of making it look nonchalant. The ex-SEAL observed the surveillance team and took a swig of his beer with an almost imperceptible nod.

"In fifteen," Mike said, letting him know how long he wanted Sam to wait after he departed the bar to head for the Learjet-85. He wanted his wingman to ensure that they wouldn't be followed.

_I'm strong on the surface, not all the way through_

He knew Sam noticed how little he'd said the last couple years, especially these days. His best friend would have laughed if he knew the reason or stared at him in silent sympathy. Since neither was not a reaction he wanted to deal with so, he kept it to himself, like his words.

_Forgetting all the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well_

_Pretending someone else can come and save me from myself_

The younger man stared at his shot of whiskey, observing the patterns the now-melted ice cubes had made in the amber liquid. At length, he picked up the glass and swirled it around before downing the contents in one long drink.

Michael didn't talk because he was afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he said anything more than the bare minimum.

But since he'd worked with Sam over half of his life, bare minimum was sufficient. Sometimes, they didn't have to say anything at all. A look, a gesture, a grunt or simple silence instead of answer were often enough to do the job. They had raised non-verbal communication to an art form. It amazed him.

For one thing, it was amazing that Sam had chosen to stick by him that long, given every bad thing that came attached with being in close proximity to him, and, for another, it amazed him that he'd been able to actually achieve that level of connectivity with one other person and that had only taken a year.

Now he would find out if that connection had survived the years in between.

"Can I get you something else to drink?" the cashier/bartender/spy asked, hovering in front of their table.

Mike waved her away with a flick of his hand without looking up from his now-empty glass. Sam followed his lead, mouthing 'no' with a smile. Agent Westen saw his partner's reaction in his peripheral vision and caught the tiny sigh that escaped his lips

Sam had thing for blondes, even faux ones: his ex-wife Amanda, Rayna, Veronica, Elsa, Yvette, the one just now at the bar- Mike couldn't be bothered to remember her name. Blondes weren't his thing, any more than relationships were.

He'd like Rayna Kopec well enough when they worked together, but she was Sam's lover, not his. He'd been grateful for her part in helping him after- he pushed the thought away and scowled at the table as the opening bars of an all too familiar tune echoed in the tiny space.

Rebecca Lange had been the last in a line-up of steely-eyed, tough-as-nails blondes Anson had sent across his path. She'd ended up just like Carla and Evelyn. It gave him a small measure of comfort to know that Dr. Fullerton didn't actually know him as well as the former DIA shrink liked to think he did.

_Lessons learned, bridges burned to the ground,_

_And it's too late now to put out the fire,_

_Tables turned, and I'm the one who's burning now,_

And it gave him a great measure of comfort because it meant that Anson still didn't know about _her._ He wouldn't have bothered with those other women if he had.

_Well I'm doing alright, 'til I close my eyes_

_And then I see your face and it's no surprise._

He couldn't close his eyes, day or night, without seeing _her_ face, couldn't wake up in the morning without wondering what _she_ was doing, couldn't go to sleep at night without wondering where _she_ was laying her head.

_Just like that I'm crawling back to you,_

_Just like you said I would yeah,_

Chris Daughtry had been born the day after Christmas. Michael had learned early on to dislike holidays that were considered 'family' events and Christmas was usually one of the worst. The added stress of his mother trying to force some familial interaction on their dysfunctional little brood usually ended in disaster; Christmas of '82 in particular.

He gritted his teeth at the memory as the chorus of the song washed over him.

His father had punched his lights out, giving him a black eye, and all his mother was worried about was getting a Christmas portrait taken of her 'happy" family. Frank's son had concluded some time ago that all the hits she'd taken to the head from his father must have caused brain damage.

It was the only explanation he could live with.

_Time can heal, but the scars only hide the way you feel,_

_And it's hard to forget how I left you hanging_

_On by a thread, when everything is said, I will regret it, yeah,_

Regret? _That_ was an understatement. Even now the image of _her_ sleeping there in _their_ bed as he backed out of _their_ room, backed out of _her_ life, tormented him like he'd done it days ago instead of years.

_I was doin' alright, thought I could make it,_

_Then I see your face and it's hard to fake it._

He closed his eyes and set his jaw against the flood of memories. It was over now. Now he could go back. Now he could see _her_ again. Now, at last, he could turn his back on what was and move on.

_Just like that I'm crawling back to you,_

_Just like you said I would yeah,_

_I swallow my pride,_

_Now I'm crawling back to you,_

He'd thought about killing Daughtry after this song came out as the battle with the organization that burned him had reached fever pitch. At that point, he'd already killed a few people as well as thinking about it. His former mentor had done everything in his power to get Mike to return to _his _side, to the dark side.

In the end, Michael had decided there should be at least two men on the planet that could get away with telling him the unvarnished truth about himself without worrying about the repercussions of that honesty.

Unfortunately for him, Mr. Sizemore wasn't one of those two.

_If you could find a way to forgive everything, I know you would._

_And I would take it all back, if only I knew that I could._

That's what he had held onto all these years. That _she_ would forgive him, that _she_ would take him back, that _she_ would understand what he'd been trying to do, how he'd been trying to protect _her_, how he never, ever wanted to leave _her_ behind and how much it broke him to walk away from _her_.

_Lessons learned, bridges burned to the ground._

_And it's too late now, to put out the fire._

He hoped, no- he prayed- that the fire between them was still there after everything he'd done.

"Wheels up," Mr. Westen said, in a tight, clipped voice.

"Whatever you say, partner."

Mr. Axe gave him an odd look, but let it drop. He knew Sam could feel the tension radiating off of him that threatened to spill over into some random act of violence. That's why he'd asked his friend to check for the tail. He might maim or kill someone in the mood he was in at the moment and Mike didn't want the potential delay an assault in an airport could garner these days.

As he exited the bar, the final lines of the song pushed him towards his aircraft and his destination.

_Outta my head, can't wait any longer,_

_Down on my knees, I thought I was stronger,_

_Just like that, like you said I'd do,_

_I'm crawling back to you._

No, he wasn't crawling back to _her_.

He was _running_.

-00000-

**A/N: Much thanks to the amazing Amanda Hawthorn and the equally awesome Purdy's Pal for their help with this AU and luv to all the girls in the Padded Cell Club. Thanks as always to everyone that alerted, fav'd and reviewed; it is all greatly appreciated. Playlist available upon request. **


	3. Michael

_**"To be willing to die for an idea is to set a rather high price on conjecture,"**__ Anatole France_

-ooooo-

_Learjet85, Transatlantic Flight, December 2015, 16:08 Hours GMT_

Sam Axe couldn't quite pinpoint the exact moment when his best friend had stopped being Mike Westen and had became Michael McBride.

It wasn't when Mike had finally told him that was the name he had used in Ireland eighteen years ago while they were sitting in the back of the Learjet85 waiting to take off from Godfrey Field at 19:45 hours.

He'd been perched on the lid of the lavatory with his laptop on his knees, his partner leaning against the curved wall by the sink parallel to his position. From this short distance, he could see that Mike was having trouble holding it together while he relayed his conversation with Fiona's brother to him.

The plane reminded Sam of a similar one he'd seen a little over four years ago, except that one had been fully equipped with all the medical technology necessary to ensure that the comatose Sean Glenanne made it back home to Ireland alive.

_"What have I told you about my time in Ireland?" the younger man queried, his voice taking on a Gaelic lilt_

_"Not much."_

_"Well, my name's Michael McBride and you're just going to have to roll with it."_

_The older man looked up, waiting for him to elaborate._

_"Before we get an air abort," he said, the accent gone._

_And that fast the almost Irishman disappeared and Agent Westen reappeared, pushing off the wall and striding purposefully towards the cockpit._

-ooooo-

It was this revelation that had caused the ex-SEAL to try to remember when the change had started. The shift had been so subtle at first that he'd almost missed it, although he hadn't been sure in the beginning what he was seeing. The military man in him had been troubled watching Mike slowly transform into someone else. It was almost like watching someone prepare for a suicide mission, like he didn't expect to come back.

And that was never a good sign.

The road trip that had started with a jaunt down to Key West to hop aboard AA869 to San Juan for a 'quick' four hour visit with Oswald and Sherry, another four hours back to the Keys and a four hour debrief with their secret weapon, Spencer, had ended over twenty four hours later. It wore Sam out just remembering it.

He also remembered being very irritated back when Mike had convinced Spencer to go back off his med's and had set the savant up with his own private compound and suitable companions on a remote key, but he couldn't argue with the results. The intelligence gathered during their visits had allowed the duo to track down the final whereabouts of Simon, Management and Anson. Or more accurately, what was left of them.

They thought they had been close to finishing it a couple of years back, but that rogue quasi-governmental organization that had burned Mike and countless other spies had proven resourceful and lethal once again, as Danni and Max would attest to if they could. Now someone, more likely an organization equally powerful and deadly, had beaten them to to their goal, but Sam had been confident he would figure out who it had been after he'd had time to study the additional intel provided by their own personal geek squad. Now they had a target, just no apparent motive.

When they'd left the loft to go on that road trip, there had been finality in Mike's preparations. The trunk of Charger had been loaded with the few things he still owned that weren't already in storage. The frequency with which they'd had to feed fuel to that big block V-8 440-cid beast was a testament to what they were hauling. Sam had chuckled imaging the look on Raines' face when he got the gas card bill, even though it would only be the Miami to DC portion of the road trip.

Mike had stopped using the loft for a residence shortly after they'd burned the house on North River Drive to the ground and faked Maddy's death. They had finally been able to convince his mother to join Nate and his family in witness protection after their final run in with Larry, when Dr. Fullerton had revealed himself as Management's previously silent partner. After Jesse's death, Maddy and Mike had gotten attached to one another at long last and then the devious bastard had finally gotten the leverage he'd been looking for and had stepped out of the shadows, but not for very long.

It'd been a hard thing, Sam knew, for her to leave and for his buddy as well. Mr. Westen had been so obviously conflicted, so impossibly torn between being elated to destroy a hated part of his past, relieved that his mother was out of the cross hairs and yet sad to see her and his childhood home vanish from his life, that he didn't speak for nearly three days. Like the good wing man he was, Mr. Axe had just kept the fridge stocked with yogurt, beer and Mediterranean carryout and kept on planning their next move while he had waited for his "brother from another mother" to adjust his operational climate.

Sam knew there was a part of himself that Mike kept hidden away. In their business, who didn't? But he also knew him better than almost anyone else, almost better than the covert operative knew himself in some ways. Perhaps that was why the ever-so-slight shifts in the spy's behavior had unsettled the former commander so much.

As they had stood on the beach of Spencer's island near the southernmost point in the United States, his dark haired associate had stared intensely and silently into the sunset and then had improbably traded him the keys to the Charger for his laptop. Mike'd studied the data their visits had produced with such concentration that Sam never did get to ask why he was driving for a change, but he never did stop wondering about it for the next four hours.

He'd wanted to stop in Miami again that evening after the long haul from Key West, but Mike had been insistent. Mr. Axe had grumbled repeatedly while his cohort had typed notes furiously into Sam's encrypted MAC as they had bypassed each storage facility, safe house and overpass in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach Counties respectively where their gear, their weaponry and what few personal mementos they still possessed that weren't already in the trunk of the black muscle car were stored.

All of which he could have dealt with except the minute they'd put the tri-county area behind them, he'd been left at the wheel and Mike had climbed into the back seat and passed out asleep.

Sometimes being Mike Westen's best friend was a serious pain in the ass.

But he hadn't quite been just Agent Westen anymore by the time they had finally put the Sunshine State behind them after a mind numbing- and backside numbing- ten hours even without the stops, traffic or accidents; things which were unavoidable on I-95, day or night. Sam had decided that the military had missed a great opportunity. Driving from Key West straight through to the north side of Jacksonville at night was a torture that truly exceeded water boarding in its simplicity and pain of application.

-ooooo-

A momentary bit of turbulance caused the EX-SEAL look about the cabin briefly before lowering his gaze back to the source of his remembered pique. Mike was awake but inattentive, staring at a CD player that the younger man was slowly rotating in his two large hands. It was faded green, 90's-era, hard shell plastic, portable, good for only a single CD. The momentary jolt in their flight had apparently not even registered. He couldn't remember the last time the covert operative had let his guard down this much.

"Should I get you two a room?" he asked.

Sam watched with some amusement as a small wave of chagrin washed over his long time partner's face before being replaced with a slight smile. This caused Mr. Axe to laugh nervously in response. While he was the only one allowed to catch the spy off guard without serious bodily injury, doing so usually resulted in a scowl, either in jest or for real depending on the circumstances.

In the chair across the aisle from his associate was Ethan Evers. The former Army Ranger, sharp shooter and second newest official member of Team Westen, was sleeping with his head thrown back at an uncomfortable angle. Evers had been picked during their refueling stop in Gander, Newfoundland at 02:22 Hours. Ethan had joined the CIA not long ago and adapted quickly to the life of a spy once his sister had passed away, having never come out of her coma.

Sam didn't miss the look Mike gave Ethan before stowing the CD player and re-inserting the ear buds of his I-Pod into his auditory canals. It was almost paternal. Improbably, his colleague had become something of a mentor to the young spy once he become a part of their team. Agent Evers had even adapted Mike's minimalist speech patterns; something that both amused and irritated the man who was co-piloting the jet, Ryan Pewterbaugh.

He and their pilot, Nick Carnahan, had been members of Mike's first official CIA team after the burn notice had been lifted. They had convinced Raines to arrange for Nick's permanent transfer from Special Forces Delta and his trip through flight school. Kimberly Danielle Pearce had been murdered because they couldn't get there fast enough to prevent it. They now had a private jet and two airman at their disposal. Nobody wanted a repeat of that failure, which still haunted them all

They had put on masterful performance once the mission briefing had started. More accurately, he and the team had. Mike had just contributed the odd word here and there just to ensure that anyone listening back at Langley knew he was still on the plane. The Learjet85 didn't have any functioning surveillance cameras, not anymore, but the listening devices were embedded in the planes structure and impossible to remove. The large-for-an-aircraft bathroom in the rear of the cabin was the only place they could have private conversation once they had boarded.

Sam smiled as he contemplated what kind of audio mayhem he could cause back here if he really put his mind to it. Aggravating Mike's superiors as much as possible had become one of his favorite pastimes in recent years. So they had put on a show for the Virginia farm boys who wanted to keep tabs on Team Westen as they tried to determine who had finished off Anson and company before they could.

_"So, gentlemen, as you can see from the debriefing notes for the two couriers that were picked up in Marseilles, this group is powerful, well connected and ruthless. Even the jihadists are afraid to cross these guys."_

_Mr. Axe loved doing that, knowing full well that the "clerks and the jerks" in the surveillance room had no visual on the documentation he was referencing._

_"They have a hand in almost everything: black market, money laundering, arms dealing, international espionage, bribery at the highest levels of government, the IMF and they own several casinos and even a couple of UK football clubs."_

_Even as he'd enumerated their criminal activities, Sam had been struck by what was missing: no drugs, no prostitution, no human trafficking, no racketeering._

_"So was Anson's organization being run __by__ these guys or were they running __from__ them?" Nick queried._

_"The sixty four billion dollar question."_

_"Is that what we're up to now on this op?." Ryan asked jokingly, not really expecting answer but rather expecting to irritate whoever was listening._

_"Part of Unione Corse?" Ethan questioned._

_"No, but give the man a prize, anyway," he answered. "The man believed to be the current head of the organization is the son of Jean Baptiste Andreani, who was the right hand man of the Marseilles mob boss and clan leader Antoine Guérini."_

_"Sixties turf war with Marcel Francisci," Ethan commented._

_"French Connection," Mike added._

_"Kennedy Assassination Team on the Grassy Knoll," Mr, Evers returned._

_"Will you guys stop that?" Mr. Pewterbaugh requested._

_"The head spooks think there's been a possible change in management based on their recent business activities."_

_"Hostile takeover?" Mike proposed._

_"Could be, brother, or they successfully resisted the merger," he concluded._

Mr. Westen _did_ very much want the answer to that particular question and it _was_ the real reason that Raines had given them a plane originally, as well as a satchel full of international currencies and fake ID's they now had, but Sam knew that while they fully intended to use the resources, it would not be in the way nor for the purpose the director had intended.

They would be meeting Cole Matthews, formerly dishonorably discharged Marine and one-time assassin, when they landed at Heathrow in London. Cole had been cleared of the charges against him as part of his recruitment as the newest member of the team. Mike had left Raines no choice.

The older man felt relief as his body told him the aircraft was coming down from its traveling altitude. He could feel it in his bones; bones that had gotten cranky of late. At his age, he was supposed to be drinking too much, getting early bird seniors discounts at all the restaurants and sponging off of rich widows, not chasing homicidal maniacs all over the globe. Former Commander Axe chuckled. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

Well, actually, in his version, the body count was a lot lower on their side.

Cole and Ryan would allegedly be leaving Heathrow to take the underground through the Chunnel and proceeding by train to Berlin. Once there, their assignment was to investigate the scene where Simon had finished off Management and a bloody scene it had been, too. Mr. Escher had parlayed his love of all things explosives into some disgustingly creative methods of torture. The security forces that had tried to protect their employer had fared only marginally better.

Nick and Ethan would purportedly be dropping off Mike and Sam in Geneva to meet with Mr. Andreani and then they would be flying to Marseilles to examine the site where Anson Fullerton had met his much deserved end. Whoever had put Anson out of his misery had made sure he was intensely miserable before being granted that privilege. After this, the former Green Beret and the young spy were to take the Company's jet, meet up with their team mates in Berlin and await further instructions. All of which was to be performed under radio silence as soon as they departed the UK.

That was the official plan at any rate. What was going to actually happen was an entirely different matter.

_They_ would be the ones slipping into the Underground near Terminal Four at Heathrow International once they landed a very short time from now. Mr. Matthews and Mr. Pewterbaugh, the two closest to their height and build on the team, would be loitering out of sight and quiet on the Learjet while Mike and Sam joined the multitude of rush hour commuters, becoming one of the many anonymous sardines packed, racked and stacked into the tubes departing the city centre.

This ensured that while Mr. Carnahan and Mr. Evers were pretending to drop off the senior members of the team in Switzerland and then conducting their own investigation in the south of France, they would have back up awaiting them on the aircraft if needed. The amount of time it should have taken Cole and Ryan to travel by train from England to Germany would align precisely with the plane's arrival in Berlin, not coincidentally home to one of the most secure US airbases in Europe. They were not taking any more chances than necessary, particularly after what had happened the last time they thought they were close to the end.

And Sam knew now just as surely as he knew it was always five o'clock somewhere, it was also no coincidence that, of the multitude of homes and estates Mr. Andreani owed throughout the world, Mike had chosen to schedule a meeting with him on his massive stud farm in County Kildare near the Currargh, which was a short drive as Americans figured such things to the town and specifically the pub where he'd been instructed to meet Sean Glenanne.

Mike Westen had always been about the answers, answers he had been willing to die for. _Who did this to me? Why was I burned? _But the questions had only gotten bigger and broader until it had encompassed an international conspiracy and all their lives.

But it appeared that Michael McBride was also seeking answers; answers to questions that were apparently just as vital.

Sam stretched as best he could. The seats on the Learjet were more comfortable than those white leather bucket seats he'd sat in for twelve hundreds miles, but he was still stiff from the inactivity. He looked over at the leader of their team again.

Mike's eyes were closed now and he was nodding his head in time to whatever music he listening to. The movement had been so slight he would have missed it if Sam hadn't already been looking for it. He'd seen Mr. Westen do that with greater frequency on their road trip as they had gotten closer to DC, albeit with only one ear bud in place while he was driving.

Now it was the Navy man's turn to be embarrassed as he stared at the white I-Pod in his partner's hand and remembered what he'd done.

-ooooo-

Mike had left it up front when he had unceremoniously slid over into the back seat to sleep, abandoning the device and the laptop on the passenger seat. At first, Sam hadn't given it a second thought. But, as the miles had gone by, the visual distractions had gotten fewer and farther between and his eyes had gotten heavier, he began wondering what had been downloaded onto his computer.

It was almost as though the spy had wanted to make sure he got to go through the intel first. Sam had found himself wondering if Mike had changed or altered anything. That errant thought had been followed immediately by a stern self rebuke. Still, his best friend's unpredictable odd behavior had him unsettled.

Thoughts about powering it up and trying to use it while driving had become almost overwhelming. He felt a momentary surge of envy for his many cop buddies who could do that, though admittedly the Charger was in no way equipped to perform that task. The more he had glanced at the contents of the passenger seat in a bid to keep himself awake by thinking about the currently unobtainable information housed there, the more curiosity about something else began to overcome him.

The little white piece of electronics had laid innocuously on his MAC for hundreds of miles, but then it had called to him like the last Mojito before closing time.

Sam had told himself his interest was justified. The amount of time the younger man now used the I-Pod was reason enough to be concerned.

Mike really wasn't much of a music fan, other than that odd request he'd made a couple of years back to find out everything about the guy who was the fourth runner up on the fifth season of American Idol. Sam thought the guy should have won, based on what little he saw of it while doing the research his buddy had asked for. There had been a small improvisational jazz period during their association with Max, but other than that...

So what was it? Intelligence briefings? Informational audio books? _The Art of Warfare _by Sun Tzu? Zen Buddhist meditation? Gregorian Chants?

-ooooo-

As he looked at his partner again and remembered the words that must have been burning a hole in his friend's soul, Sam Axe found himself wishing for blissful ignorance again.

-ooooo-

_You never said, you never said, you never said that it would be this hard. Love is meant to be forever, now or never seems to discard._

_There's gotta be a better way for me to say what's on my heart without leaving scars. So can you hear me when I call your name?_

_And when you fall apart, am I the reason for your endless sorrow? There's so much to be said._

_And with a broken heart your walls can only go down but so low_

_Can you hear me when I call your name? When I call your name?_

-ooooo-

Sam had thumbed the I-Pod, changing to the next song and then the next and next.

-ooooo-

_No matter how many miles stand in between / in my heart is where you'll be / holdin' on to all our dreams / with everything, everything but me / do you know how much it hurts to know / and leave it all behind, leave it all behind / i see you in my mind / 'cause you are right there all the time / far away in another place/ give my soul just to see your face / wherever you are is where i want to be_

-ooooo-

It was the same, song after gut wrenching song, the same male singer's voice as haunted as his buddy's heart surely was.

-ooooo-

_All the chances that you've taken / Promises that I keep breakin down / Writings on the wall / Can't make out all the letters / But I know its getting better now / The writings on, the writings on the wall / Get me through.. / There's nothing I can do / I believe you can get me through / It's you that I believe in /_

_Nothing else will do. I believe you can get me through, so can you stop the bleeding._

-ooooo-

Longing, loneliness, hope, fear, regret, guilt, sorrow, apology, pleading for redemption, looking for salvation, living on a promise that might not _ever_ be fulfilled in this lifetime.

-ooooo-

_I want nothin more than to be with you here at home / Yeah, I know it's been so long / What I did was wrong, yeah / And only you and me, and only you and me / Well even though I'm not there with you / It's good to keep me close / Closer to your skin, you gotta keep me deep within / Cuz where I am right now I couldnt be tomorrow / Close enough to see, Close enough to hear you breathe. Close enough to feel the warmth of you, cuz I am so cold, yeah_

-ooooo-

Sweet Jesus, no wonder the guy never talked. What could anyone say while dragging around that kind of emotional baggage?

-ooooo-

_The miles are getting longer, it seems, the closer I get to you. I've not always been the best man or friend for you._

_But your love remains true and I don't know why. You always seem to give me another try._

_So I'm going home, back to the place where I belong and where your love has always been enough for me._

-ooooo-

Sometime later, he had noticed Mike's face in the rear view mirror. Decades of silent communication allowed the moment to pass between them without anything needing to be said. Sam had deposited the I-Pod into the outstretched hand and had turned his attention back to the highway, no longer sleepy by any stretch of the imagination.

No, he wasn't sure of the exact moment when the man across from him on the descending jet had stopped being Mikey and had become Michael.

He knew it wasn't when they'd arrived at long last in Langley, Virigina for their meeting with Raines. It wasn't when Mike had parked the Charger in the CIA's secure garage and given the keys to the attendant with instructions to turn them over to Ruth Westen in an appropriately obscure manner. It wasn't after hours of meetings and exchanged of intelligence and provisions. It wasn't when they had met with their team mates on the tarmac at Godfrey Field and loaded their bags and their gear into the Learjet, nor was it when they had changed into the heavier, warmer, darker, low key clothes they would need to blend in, the team all wearing similar garb to aid in the confusion of their identities.

No, he wasn't exactly sure when it had happened.

But Sam Axe knew one thing for certain as he watched the words his best friend was listening to form noiselessly on his lips.

-ooooo-

_So I'm going home, back to the place where I belong and where your love has always been enough for me._

_I'm not running from. No, I think you got me all wrong. Do I regret this life I chose for me? But these places and these faces are getting old,_

_Be careful what you wish for, 'Cause you just might get it all. You just might get it all and then some you don't want.  
><em>-ooooo-

When the man who'd had his back for decades stepped off that plane, walked into the English winter night and headed towards the Emerald Isle no matter what happened when they got there, it would be Michael McBride who would be going home.

-ooooo-

_I said these places and these faces getting old._

_So I'm going home. I'm going home._

-ooooo-

And Sam had no idea whatsoever if Mike Westen was ever coming back.

-ooooo-

**A/N: Thank you so much to amazing Amanda and always awesome Purdy's Pal for their reviews, comments, suggestions and encouragement. Thank you also to the wonderful and hilarious Daisy Day for keeping me laughing while I was channeling miserable Mike for this fic. Mega huge thank you to everyone who reviewed, fav'd and alerted this fic and for being patient during the gap between updates. RL just so gets in the way sometimes. Enjoy!**


	4. McBride

_**"A person is never happy except at the price of some ignorance." **Anatole France_

-ooooo-

_The Swift, Irish Sea, December 2015, 18:15 Hours_

Ironically, it was something that his mother had said about family that struck a chord with him just then. He'd tried often enough to forget the things that she'd said over the years, but unfortunately he couldn't.

Michael was sitting in Club Class, staring into the gathering darkness outside the large picture windows that lined either side of the upper deck of the last passenger ferry leaving Holyhead bound for Dublin for the day. All it had taken was the flash of faux passports and some cash to put them on the reserve deck of the Swift, ensconced amongst a sea of thickly padded bright red leather lounge chairs, all arranged in sets around various brown round tables and scattered at semi-regular intervals throughout the space.

Seventeen years earlier, he'd taken a very different boat ride from England back across the wind tossed water to Ireland with her. He recalled that his only love had said something as they'd departed the docks in Dublin very similar to what his mother had said the very last time he'd ever seen her before she'd gone into witness protection with his brother's family. But then again, he remembered everything.

Everything he saw, everything he heard, everything he read, everything he had ever touched or smelled.

Everything he ever felt_._

Two features dominated the upper deck. One was the waist-height railing, brightly constructed of brass and white metal which separated the passengers from the large opening onto the lower deck, and showcased the grand staircase. The other was the long chrome and brown Formica refreshment bar that encompassed the entire back wall of the enormous room, except for the two seating spaces on either side of the rear exits.

His long-time partner had just vanished through one of those exits on his way to get some "fresh air." He smiled slightly at how Mr. Axe had looked longingly toward the glistening chrome tap at the refreshment bar with the pretty blonde behind it, The spy was sure that flirting with the barmaid was of equal importance with actually obtaining any beverage she'd dispense. He leaned back in his seat on the right-hand side of the stern, back to the wall as always.

Michael shook his head slowly at that thought, briefly running through all the times he'd found himself with his back to the wall figuratively as well as literally. He could argue with himself for hours on end if he let it go on over just how much complicity he'd had in backing himself into those corners with his choices. Because when it came to recalling the past, he had no choice.

He had near perfect recall.

If it passed by him in some fashion or another, he remembered. It had been both a blessing and a curse in his lifetime. It had made forgetting the misery of his home life nearly impossible, but it had made school easy, too easy, and he'd parlayed his boredom into mischief, which had been painful until he got savvy enough not to get caught.

It had made being a solider both easy and difficult, which is why he'd become a spy.

It had made him an exceptional spy.

It had made him an exceptionally haunted human being.

And these days when the memories came, often the music was there as well.

_She was curled up on her side, a deeply satisfied ghost of a smile on her face even in sleep, her hand reaching for the empty but still warm spot he'd just vacated. Part of him dreaded her waking up; as he knew his courage would fail him if she did, but part of him longed for it for the same reason.~ "__Shadows fill an empty heart as love is fading,"~_

The man's music also haunted him. It had for years, ever since he'd found the CD in that Miami hotel room after he'd been burned. He couldn't understand how someone he'd never met could see into his soul. He couldn't fathom how another person on the face of the earth knew him so well, outside of Sam and the one other, of course-

_She was so beautiful it hurt, especially with her lingering warmth and her sweet scent still clinging to him, particularly now that he would only have the memory of her to sustain him while he was gone. He'd tried to leave her once before albeit for a very short time. This would be a much longer, more bitter separation because it was to protect her that he was being forced to go. ~ "__From all the things that we are, but are not saying."~_

So many things had gone unsaid; so many years had gone by. As that omnipresent dream of being with his wild Irish rose again was about to become a reality, he was less sure of himself. Did he have a right to come into her life again? He'd seen the Intel, he'd seen the fragments of photos and had studied them for hours on that drive from Key West. When he'd pieced together what she'd had to do to survive, that knowledge had momentarily overcome him.

_He used to love the darkness and the beauty of the night sky, but now the stars were accusing him as he slipped out of the apartment block into the bitter winter night away from his only love. ~"__Can we see beyond the stars and make it to the dawn?"~_

That particular reminiscence had already hit him again a couple of days ago as he'd exited the warm confines of the Learjet85 and strode into the chilly English evening. He'd pretended that it was the cold that had stolen his breath away. He'd known he probably hadn't fooled Sam, but it didn't matter. There'd be no words said about it. They had stepped in tandem into the gathering fog, their woolen caps pulled down and the hoods of their jackets up, and then slipped into the subway entrance near Terminal Four.

The pair had descended into the immaculate tunnels of the underground, blending into the crush of humanity that was all trying to be somewhere else. Their thick coats had been lined inside with cash and identification papers, their clothes with weapons that wouldn't upset the local constabulary or set off any metal detectors and the small backpacks under their coats full of the same and more. Two day saver tickets later, they had been on their way out of London with none the wiser and evidently no one in tow.

The station had been fairly clean and brightly lit, despite the fact that the narrow rectangular metal bins had begun to overflow with rubbish now that the evening rush hour was getting into full swing. There had been so much to pay attention to- all the movement and the sounds of the surrounding people echoing throughout the space encased in gleaming white tile with blue border accents curving towards the rounded ceiling, and the rush of the trains vibrating the concrete floor under their feet- so many things to watch for that he'd been able to stop remembering other things for a time. In the midst of the chaos, it had been almost peaceful.

It had been a testament to the barely suppressed tension that had rolled off his body in waves that there had been actually some space, miniscule though it was, between himself and Sam and the other commuters, and there had been no knowing hands reaching in their direction in search of ill-gotten bounty.

They had taken the Piccadilly line from Heathrow and then boarded another train on the metropolitan line which would take them to the end of line; passing through station after station through King's Cross and beyond, with masses of people coming and going, but all implicitly understanding that the two quiet men in the back were not to be trifled with; no one wanted to even recall that they'd been there at all.

Exiting the Harrow and Weldstone Station, they had come once again into the cold night air and had pulled their hoods up for warmth instead of subterfuge. He had chosen Harrow for two reasons. For one, it was not quite the end of the line. With everyone else having to exit at Watford, it would have been harder to distinguish who was following and who was just being forced off. The other reason was he knew the area well. He'd been here before, a lifetime ago with-

Sam's stomach had rumbled low in protest before Michael could get too deep into his reverie.

With a knowing grin, the spy had nodded toward The Bridge ahead of them. It was a fifteen minute walk to the Hindes Hotel and the Tesco nearby that held everything he'd known his partner would be looking for once they were settled. It had also ensured that if they still had a tail, whoever was following would have had to reveal themselves or risk losing their quarry. But it had been a particularly windy and therefore frigid night and the sounds of wellies and other boots crunching through the snow were few and far between besides their own.

Michael had done all the talking, what little of it was necessary, since they'd left Heathrow. He'd varied his accents, covering a broad range of the multiple boroughs of London or the surrounding environs depending on what seem most inconspicuous. He hadn't needed to instruct Sam not to speak. Mr. Axe had been to England before and already knew what kind of attention his broad American accent would garner. That's why he'd been a soldier and not a spy. His facility with language was limited to self- defensive Spanish picked on the streets of South Florida and the jungles of South America.

"Mr. Heyer" had gotten them a room, twin beds with a private en suite; the security that privacy brought being the more important consideration. The whole common bathroom at the end of the hall thing was something that the covert operative had never quite wrapped his head around in spite of his years overseas. Their room was small, but clean and well kept despite the hotel being thirty five years old.

After doffing their heavy outer coats and back packs, Sam had set off at his own insistence to shop for provisions. Hotels didn't normally appreciate patrons bringing in things from the outside, but the former SEAL had been adamant that he could pick up what they needed and what he wanted by himself without getting them undue notice from their hosts.

_"It's what o'clock at night, Mikey. I'll just grunt. No one'll know the difference."_

As such, there had been nothing to keep him from drifting off into the past once he'd finally settled on the bed in the same hotel he'd shared with her all those years ago.

_He'd come to England by himself, ostensibly on a mission for the Provo, but it'd really been about a meeting with his handler to explore bringing her with him when he left the country for the final time. He'd told them she would be killed __if he left her behind__ and she was too valuable an information source to be abandoned. His imminent departure after a year and a half undercover had started a disturbance within him that had grown into an ache; one which indicated as he'd put miles between them and Ireland behind him__,__ that she was more than just a particularly good asset, though he certainly couldn't have acknowledged that to the Company or himself just then. _

_He'd planned on using an IRA safe house in Harrow that he knew had already been compromised. It would be a good excuse for him to be picked up with no one the wiser and then he could explain he'd been released after questioning and aborted the mission. It wouldn't have mattered if his easy escape made anyone suspicious; they were almost done with dismantling the REAL IRA and, with any luck, they could leave Ireland altogether. _

_He'd been waiting as night fell for MI6 when a familiar pair of small strong hands had wrapped themselves around his mouth and his bicep and pulled him out the back door before the agents could show up to take him into "custody." She'd dragged him back to the room she'd taken at the Hindes Hotel to watch the safe house for his arrival. They'd sat silently in the blacked out room, peering and listening while his intended escorts had come, searched for him and subsequently left, no doubt scratching their collective heads._

_Now she'd put him a real bind. He couldn't contact his people without letting her know he was an American spy and he didn't dare take the chance of telling her who he really was until he'd gotten their exit strategy sorted out. Worse yet, she'd just invalidated the one he'd come up with as surely as she had ruined the meet. He'd have a helluva time now selling the fact that her life was endangered back in Ireland when she'd quite obviously been capable of getting out of the country on her own._

_His rising frustration with the whole situation and ensuing ire had been difficult to control. Then the lights had been snapped on and he'd seen the fear in her eyes. Fiona had crushed herself against him in a desperate embrace__.__ She'd known as soon as Sean had said he was headed for Harrow that he would be detained and she couldn't allow that. Putting her at arm's length, he'd demanded to know how she knew, fearing that now he'd been compromised. Then she'd begun to tremble in his grasp, confessing that she'd been a party to both the Dockland and Manchester bombings. The house had been used in both operations, she had explained, which he knew. But what he hadn't known about was her involvement._

_Furthermore, he had been floored that she would have risked capture on English soil to come after him after what she had just told him and he'd said so bluntly. What she had just done had inexplicably caused fury to mingle together with fear over how she had endangered herself back then as well as now. Wasn't being in the IRA dangerous enough for her? What in the world could have motivated her to take such a huge risk as being involved in the largest bomb attack in the UK since the Second World War? _

_When the tears started streaming down her cheeks, he had been outright flabbergasted. Fiona Glenanne had a fierce reputation and deservedly so. He had __never__ seen her cry. Michael had struggled to understand her response and had tried to mollify her, telling her that he was capable of holding his own when it came to an interrogation, no matter how many MI6 agents or British soldiers were standing about. _

_Suddenly, the pale Irishwoman began to shake violently. She tried unsuccessfully to hold her own shuddering frame together until his strong arms encompassed her quivering limbs. He'd pulled her onto the bed, sitting her down before she fell down. He__'d__ begged her to tell him what was wrong. It was then that the substance behind her nightmares had come out; the reasons she screamed in the night that had nothing to do with what she'd done with the IRA, but rather why she'd been in the IRA in the first place. _

_She and Claire had gotten onto a wrong street back in Belfast; they had been hurrying trying to beat the sunset and had made a mistake. A trio of Protestant paramilitary hooligans had become intent on celebrating their good luck and the girls' misfortune. She'd tangled with them, occupying them so Claire could escape and get help. Though one of them had pursued her sister, she'd won her a good head start._

_The larger of the two left had bashed her in the head with the thick liquor bottle they'd been drinking from, leaving her barely conscious and virtually helpless and then they'd taken their advantage. The sounds of the struggle caught the attention of a pair of British soldiers who stopped at the end of the gloomy space between the buildings, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, doing nothing, before moving away. _

_Then she'd dimly heard the one who'd gone after Claire return. He had laughed and said that since she'd been outrunning him, he'd just emptied his pistol into her instead. Suddenly, Fiona had felt a surge of rage-infused strength and the clarity necessary to smash the ones nose into his brain and leave the other to choke to death on his own Adam's apple. The third got away but, she had whispered in a rasp, he had later come to wish he'd died with his friends that night. They would _all _pay for hurting her and her family__._

_Guilt had added another thread to Michael's already entangled emotions. She had started sobbing silently, soaking his thick sweater with copious tears, the shivering slowly abating but never ceasing, as he had lain them down on the bed, rocking her, holding her, kissing her hair and her face softly, whispering words of comfort and love all the while in total shock. After what she'd been through, she had dared to come here alone to rescue him? Worse yet, how could he possibly tell her now that he'd been lying to her all this time after what she'd just done for him, what she'd just shared with him? _

He'd heard Sam return from his foraging trip as he'd stood in the shower, hot liquid cascading over his face, and ignored the triumphant exclamation about actually finding yogurt and the expected complaints about the warm beer and cold food. He had been sure that if Sam had heard anything unusual coming from en suite when he barged into the room that his best friend would be equally unobservant.

-ooooo-

"Is this seat taken?"

The lilting accent had jolted him back into the present with the equivalent of an electric shock. The young woman standing before him was a fine example of an Irish lass, but there was only one Irish woman on his mind right now and he wasn't interested in being distracted or having to keep up a conversation, polite or otherwise.

"It tis," he said tersely with not quite a glare, which had her beating a hasty retreat towards the restrooms located behind the bar. He didn't think she'd be back. He'd booked the two seats on the opposite of the table facing theirs as well to ensure their privacy.

He glanced over at his long-time partner standing at the "coffee and cakes" portion of the bar at the far end of the room, pretending to choose but actually using the reflective surface behind the bar to observe the room. He had no doubt that Sam could fill those empty seats if he chose to or, more accurately, if Michael would allow it.

The dark haired man shook his head again, wondering for the millionth time why his colleague chose to put up with his high-handedness. The former Ranger supposed it had to do with loyalty, but it also had to do with the innumerable times the ex-SEAL had conned him into helping people over the years. Left to his own devices particularly after he'd been burned, he knew he wouldn't have given people the time of day, never mind his assistance, if it hadn't been for his brother in arms and his mother and his actual brother for that matter. It had just been easier to take coming from the former naval commander.

He was glad they had come aboard right before sunset. The lowered illumination from the small round lights embedded throughout in the silver metal ceiling better suited his mood. They would be on shore in little over an hour and then the years of remembering _her_, dreaming about _her_ and longing for _her _would change into actually seeing Fiona Glenanne again. Just like the morning after their harrowing night in that appropriately named town, the master spy found himself with some very important tactical goals but only rough approach as to how to accomplish them and one lingering question.

He'd gotten up early the next day during both times, which is to say he never really went to sleep in each instance. He had stood watching the sunrise again in front of the Hindes Hotel, except this time there was a melody attached to the eternal question. _~"Change the colors of the sky and open up to the ways you made me feel alive, the ways I loved you. For all the things that never died, to make it through the night, Love will find you."~_

Sam hadn't even bothered to make a crack about what he could have done to get dirty overnight when he awoke to find Michael in the shower again. That had not been the case when Mr. Axe exited the en suite after his morning ablutions and found his long-time partner sitting on the bed staring at the now familiar CD player again. _~"What about now? What about today? What if you were making me all that I was meant to be? What if our love never went away? What if it's lost behind words we could never find? Baby, before it's too late.__'~_

His long suffering compatriot had dropped the wet towels onto the sink basin with a small splat and a mock huff of irritation that was actually covering his discomfort with his best friend's atypical and somewhat erratic behavior.

_"Geez, Mikey, at least warn me if you're going to have eyeball sex with that thing again. I'll go to breakfast and leave you two alone."_

It had taken the hotel-provided fried breakfast to improve Sam's mood, but thereafter the covert operative had discovered another odd parallel to his next day with Fiona. They both had been surprised by his solution to their transportation issue. Mr. McBride had taken out the paper he'd requested the prior night and had begun calling advertisements for old cars likely to fail their next MOT inspection, again in an amusing array of different accents. Both of Sam and Fiona had had curiously similar 'why didn't I think of that' expressions on their very different faces.

Sometimes he found himself wondering how the two of them would have gotten on had they ever had the opportunity to work together instead of trying to kill each other. The older man had told him about their dust up in Libya back in the day. Michael would have liked to believe that she would be more interested in seeing _him_ again than in trying to exact revenge on Sam when they met up in again at the pub in Kildare.

"'_ere's just the thing we'll be wantin': Vauxhall Cavalier 2.0 1995 3 months tax and MOT 2016."_

A Vauxhall Cavalier, Mr. Axe had soon learned, was a five door hatchback with a 2 litre engine that was quite speedy and handled well. Despite its beat up appearance, Michael's expert ear and eye for all things automotive had determined the vehicle was mechanically sound enough to get them across the country and was appropriately priced, though it failed by comparison to the Charger in the leg room department. The one he'd purchased seventeen years ago had been in better shape, but he'd been more concerned about breaking down then than now.

After a lengthy cab ride, a prolonged bit of haggling, some falsified paperwork and a quick snack later, their cash stores had been depleted by five hundred pounds sterling and they'd been on their way back toward Wales. By the time the paperwork would have gotten back to the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Authority, they would be long gone to Dublin. Mr. McBride had calculated if they didn't stop too often or run into too much traffic or bad weather, they could be in Holyhead in time to catch the last ferry across.

As they had made their way generally westward along the A55, Sam had talked almost incessantly while they had wound through and around various little towns, villages and hamlets. He'd commented on the stark beauty of the scenery in between speculating that whether it would have been faster if they'd have gone by mountain goat as opposed to burro, although he still had a soft spot for that Colombian burro.

Michael had assumed he was getting it out of his system before Sam had to do the strong-silent thing again in Ireland which was usually the younger man's stock in trade. It was apparent his partner had also been pleased that the conversation had not been entirely one-sided; so much so that Sam had talked about everything but the proverbial eight hundred pound pachyderm in the backseat. His unusual restraint had caused Mr. McBride to crack a rare toothy smile, even if the issue had been on his mind too.

After weaving their way through the last of the Snowdonia Mountains in Wales at an agonizingly slow pace, he had to remind his travelling companion that he hadn't spent over a decade away from her just to lead their enemies to her doorstep now. His unusual candour had caused Mr. Axe to finally come around to asking one of the more personal questions that had been on his mind for a decade or so.

_"Don't really see much snow in Miami. Kind of pretty in a pain in the ass to drive through way, huh, Mikey?"_

_"The weather, Sam? Seriously?"_

_"Okay, then, brother. So, you, uh, gonna share with me why you're so attached to that audio technology relic or should I just plan on getting a separate room in Dublin?"_

_Michael had sighed. "When I was-" he still hesitated before saying it, "burned and I woke up in that hotel, a woman had been there. There was no ID or wallet, just a small backpack, like the ones we've got. The clothes were her size, but nothing I'd ever seen her wear before."_

_"Could have been left behind before you ever got there," had been the reasonable conclusion._

_"True, except for the CD player that was in it. I bought her one exactly like that, right before I-" He had gripped the steering wheel tightly and then blew out a slow breathe between his teeth before continuing. "It was a UK brand that played American CD's too, so she could—" There was another pause while he swallowed thickly. "The CD in it had only been released the year before."_

_"You think she was there?" He__'d__ seen the growing interest in Sam's eyes. The reason they were going back to Ireland besides their meeting with Armand Andreani was usually a forbidden topic. "Then where'd she go? Why didn't she come back for you?"_

_"I don't know," his voice had dropped to a whisper. "I only know I'd probably have been dead if she- someone- hadn't come and patched me up."_

_The look on his friend's face had told him Sam remembered what a mess he'd been and that had been several weeks after the fact. Despite what he'd just said, he was convinced it was Fiona who'd been there, tending his wounds and watching over him. He could still feel her hands, still smell her perfume..._

-ooooo-

There had been just enough time to discuss where they were headed next and finish the coffee and breakfast items by the time Sam had finally returned with them. It was an odd choice for dinner, but food had stopped mattering much to him. He probably would have lived on yogurt if not for his associate. What had mattered was that it had been time to depart the ferry and stand on Irish soil again at long last.

On their trip from the ferry to the hotel, he'd paid the necessary minimal attention to his actions and his conversations, but internally he was yet again comparing the two incidents over and over in his head. With an ease born of years of practice and comradery, Sam had correctly interpreted the reason for his silence and his almost imperceptible distraction and left him to it, offering just a nod in acknowledgement.

Michael was certain that it was Fiona who had come for him again in Miami like she had back in Harrow. He'd held onto that for years, going back to that truth every time the temptation to just give up threatened to overwhelm him. The fact that an adjacent warehouse had exploded just in time to distract his FBI tail was too much of a coincidence, but he hadn't waited around to be arrested or interrogated about it.

Afterwards, he had searched for her then as best he could without the CIA resources, relying on Sam's good old buddy network and his own less than scrupulous connections with no results. Not that he'd had any better luck finding her using the Agency's resources behind their backs before they'd burned him.

Sleep, though it mattered, eluded him as well. He stood outside their small hotel in Dublin watching the sun rise once more. It wasn't the same hotel he'd been in with his wild Irish rose seventeen years ago, but the memories of it were enough to keep him awake. ~_The sun is breaking in your eyes to start a new day.~ _

She'd been so tense, so on edge, until they'd finally emerged from the shadows of the smugglers hold onto the docks shrouded in the darkness of twilight Dublin that he thought she might implode. He'd been just as tightly bound himself, concerns over her capture evaporating to be replaced with worries about their future and righteous fury over her past. _~This broken heart can still survive with a touch of your grace.~_

He'd just asked how she had wanted to get home when she'd informed him she needed some time before she was ready to face her brother. That's when she'd said it and it had surprised him.

"_Ya can't pick yar __family, ya just have t'deal wit' wot God hands ya and make do. I con't make do wit' Sean tonight." _

He couldn't think of anyone she was closer to than her twin. At his puzzled look, she'd assured him that it had nothing to do with her feelings about her brother because that would never change and she would always love her family, but for tonight she wanted to be with just her _immediate _family. He'd taken the hint and booked a room. ~"_Shadows fade into the light. I am by your side where love will find you."~_

He had lain down quietly with her, enfolding her in his embrace as he had the night before, his heart swelling with emotions he didn't know how to deal with. But all that mattered was her, so he kept the kisses and caresses light and comforting. He'd been startled when she started returning the affection, his mind still awash in the horror of what she'd told him. When she had let him know that what she wanted from him was to help her banish the past, he'd taken the entire night to slowly, adoringly, tenderly, lovingly and gently fulfil her needs. _~Now that we're here, now that we've come this far, just hold on. There is nothing to fear for I am right beside you. For all my life, I am yours.~ _

As Michael McBride stood watching the sky transition slowly from darkness to daylight, he held onto the hope that she still regarded him as her immediate family, even if she might not potentially be his anymore.

_~Baby, before it's too late, What about now?~_

-ooooo-

**A/N: Mega huge thank you for everyone to takes the time to read, alert, fav and REVIEW! It is greatly appreciated even if I don't personally reply all the time. Thanks to Amazing Amanda for the BETA and equally awesome Daisy Day for reading through, especially the intense stuff. Special thanks to the incredible Purdy's Pal without whom this never have been as rich in detail. Thanks to the lovely CJ for her friendship and my apologies to EveyNicole. I promise I won't make you wait around another 2 months for an update. **


	5. Sean

"_**It is human nature to think wisely and act foolishly."**_ _Anatole France_

-ooooo-

_Private Helipad, Castleknock Hotel & Country Club, Dublin, Ireland 10:00 AM GMT_

Sean was a Glenanne and, as such, waiting patiently was not in his blood unless it involved a sniper rifle or something that required a detonator.

He paced around the perimeter of the helipad on the grounds of one of the Andreanis' and Dublin's finer four-star hotels, making a perfectly square circuit around the Eurocopter EC 135 P2 helicopter while his mind went in endless circles.

As a young boy in Belfast, he'd never thought his life would come to this. Of all the things that had happened in his forty five years of walking this earth, everything he did or said or thought for the past decade or so had been centered around a very small set of relationships that had come to define his very existence.

Somehow he had always felt as though he were pushing the proverbial boulder up that hill in hell, knowing all the while that despite all his best efforts, things more monumental or monstrous than he was were going to have their way. It had happened with his family time and again and most especially in his first and most important connection, that with his twin sister Fiona, much to his ever present sorrow.

He was Fiona's older brother only by virtue of pushing his way out of the womb first. Their mother had often remarked how she'd felt as though they were fighting to see who would be firstborn. Mrs. Glenanne had spent the last two months of her pregnancy on bed rest, the doctor suspecting she had a cracked rib or two. Fiona had literally been on his heels on their birthday. In an already tight-knit clan, their closeness as well as their competitiveness had come to define their relationship.

Another thing over which he'd had no control that permeated almost every aspect of his life was his family history. The Glenannes had been involved in the Cause for as long as Sean could remember and apparently several generations back as well. But he hadn't needed the wrath of his ancestors to spur him on in his hatred of the British and every loyalist paramilitary sonuvabitch in Northern Ireland. His memorable tenth birthday present alone would have been enough.

Their Da and their oldest brother had been arrested and dragged out of the house for questioning before they could blow out the candles on the cake. Patrick Junior came back a bloody mess.

Patrick Senior didn't come back at all.

He paused and ran a leather gloved hand through his russet hair, blowing out a deep breath and forming a translucent cloud of warmed air in front of him. The mid-morning sun had tried and failed to banish any of the chill from the night before as it struggled to penetrate the layer of cloud cover that ran from horizon to horizon. His flight jacket and his jeans kept him almost warm enough, but not quite.

As he had gotten older, Sean had begun to see that the classic Irish stubbornness that found its highest expression in the Glenanne family was not always a good thing. Patrick Junior had declared he would not be shifted from their ancestral home and he'd been right. They buried him in Belfast a few years later right next to the memorial marker for his father, whose body was never recovered. If only that had been the worst thing that had ever happened to his family, he reflected sadly.

If the loss of his twin had nearly driven his now oldest brother Liam insane, then Sean's failure to succeed in his mission of keeping the girls safe had finished the job. Claire's death had been a brutal waste of a gifted young life, another reason to immerse themselves in the Republican cause, but at least his youngest sister was at peace. There was no peace to be had in living with the aftermath of what had happened to his twin and how she'd chosen to deal with it.

Shivering that had nothing to do with the cold gripped Sean Glenanne for a moment and then he resumed his march, as much to still his mind as to try to stay warm though neither worked particularly well.

Fiona had clung to Sean desperately from the moment he'd picked her up. The dried blood caked on the wounds all over her body and spattered on her shredded clothing were an eerie match for the flaking red paint of the telephone booth in which she'd taken refuge. They'd had to call the mid-wife who'd delivered them in to see to her injuries. His sister had categorically and violently refused to leave her bedroom once he'd gotten her home. In between muttering harsh invectives at the animals responsible, the woman had advised him bluntly, "Ferget about har making ya an uncle. If she ever tries havin' babbies, like as not it'll be har or the bairn."

Fiona had been almost catatonic during Claire's funeral except for the trembling that never quite left her limbs. Sean had held his own emotions in check only by focusing on the task of keeping his sister upright.

A single tear rolled down his face then, almost freezing on its slide towards his chin. With her being gone and McBride on his way, it was harder to keep the memories of their painful past at bay. But the suffering caused by her assault and Claire's death were nothing compared to what had followed. He almost wished Fiona had stayed locked in her bedroom. But she hadn't.

Sean didn't recognize the woman who'd emerged from his twin's bedroom that day. The bright and shining star that had once been his sister had collapsed into a black hole of a person, terrifying in her darkness and as unrelenting as an event horizon. Her brother had mistaken her lack of responsiveness in the days following Claire's burial for inattention, tragically mistaken as it turned out. He'd been rightly worried about her state of mind, but he'd been quite wrong about what that state truly was.

She knew every one of his contacts, she knew where every weapon and bomb he had access to could to be found and she knew every operation that was underway. Soon, the violence that had erupted in the wake of the cease fire collapsing between the IRA and its enemies had a new epicenter: Fiona Glenanne.

She'd do anything, which was easy when you didn't care if you lived or died. Whether the woman was peering down a scope as one of the South Armagh snipers or planting bombs on British soil, she was reckless, she was ruthless and she was terrifying. The leadership of the IRA both loved and feared her, while he just loved and feared _for_ her.

Sean had hoped against hope that when the ceasefire came as a prelude to the Good Friday Agreement that Fiona would finally come to her senses and come home. He'd been wrong again.

If anything, his twin became worse, incensed that the organization would stand down while there was still a British soldier on Irish soil or a loyalist still contaminating good Irish air by breathing. Then she fell in with a truly radical crowd and one seriously blood thirsty bastard by the name of Thomas Eugene O'Neill.

It had been O'Neil's idea to form the REAL IRA and his sister had been right there with him, a staunch supporter. Sean had gone along with it solely for the purpose of trying to keep Fiona from getting herself killed or doing something she'd regret the rest of her life. However, it was soon all too plain that his sibling had neither long life nor remorse on her mind. It also became immediately apparent that O'Neil had more on his mind where his twin was concerned than their next radical terrorist plot.

"Fer all the good it did ya," Sean said to no one in particular, as he was alone on the helipad and precious few people were out and about in the cold on this part of the country club. His only company was the sparsely spaced trees with their denuded branches reaching silently for the muted grey sky.

He'd hated O'Neil with a passion for encouraging Fiona's anger and egging her on to do even more dangerous things, as if what she'd been up to hadn't been bad enough. But Mr. O'Neill soon learned that Ms. Glenanne kept company with no man outside of her brothers and he was just one of many who desired her to no avail- until Michael McBride had come along, that is.

Sean had to chuckle at the memory in spite of his morose mood, making more clouds of ice crystals in front of his face as he tucked the scarf more tightly around his neck. There were probably more people who wanted Michael McBride dead because his sister had fancied him than there surely would have been if they'd learned, as Sean had, that the man was actually an American spy named Michael Westen.

Michael Westen- now there was another person who'd come to define his family, and by extension his own life, for the past decade or so. Sean paused momentarily and consulted his watch.

_Whot wa' takin' so bloody long for the damned frog limo driver t'pick up Westen and his partner and get back here? _

Mr. Glenanne resumed his circuit, his heavy boots having worn a sure path around the edge of the concrete landing pad. The irony that he was chasing his own tail yet again was not lost on him as his foot prints multiplied one on top of another. He took another look around the grounds, seeing no one about and little cover for anyone to use. As he returned to his pacing, he returned to his remembering as well.

At first, she'd had no time for the dark haired man who'd claimed to be from Kilkenny unless there was a bomb to plant, a bank to rob or live target practice to be had. Amazingly, McBride had managed to keep pace with her, something Sean himself had barely been able to do ever.

Slowly the newcomer had waded into the gale force that was his sibling and emerged unscathed. Well, mostly unscathed; Michael had added to his collection of scars, facial and otherwise, while he'd tried to win Fiona's heart. Her brother could sympathize. He collected enough scars of his own at her hands over the years.

She was admittedly a hard woman to be around and a tough one to love, but gradually her "gentleman friend" had started to turn his sister back into someone who resembled the woman Sean had once known and he was immensely grateful for the exchange.

Thomas O'Neil, on the other hand, was less pleased with the professional and personal renovations taking place in Fiona's life. O'Neil had tried rekindling her radical fire, promoting more violent operations resulting in higher civilian casualties, but he had been too late.

By the time the vicious thug had succeeded in killing twenty nine civilians and injuring two hundred and twenty people consisting of mostly Catholic civilians in the Omagh bombing, the Glenannes weren't the only ones who were disturbed by his methods and rethinking their commitment to the REAL IRA. When O'Neil told her about the next bombing he'd planned for the girl's prep school, her reaction had been classic Fiona.

By the time Thomas got out of the hospital, the trio had seen to it that the explosives never made it to their target and that he was persona non grata with both the radical and the Republican groups. O'Neil blamed them all for his loss of status and mobility. The self-styled patriot would walk with a pronounced limp for the rest of his life.

Sean stopped then and rubbed his gloved hands together, looking out over the snow covered golf course beyond the helicopter. It was cold but still. It would be an uneventful flight. He had no great love of flying, but he trusted precious few people and none of them he knew was a pilot. So he had remedied that situation in his "spare" time years ago. Then he finally heard the sound he'd been waiting for in the distance disturbing the still winter morning air. The limousine was finally on its way.

"About bloody time," he groused. "Damned Yanks. Ya'd be late fer yar own funerals," although he was sure the delay had as much to do with the spy's caution as anything. He turned and walked toward the approaching vehicle, his boots crunching through the thin icy cover on the ground.

Sean had been pleased to find that he had a kindred spirit in his sister's boyfriend, who had been gently turning his twin from her lust for vengeance. When the man had confessed to Sean that he was really working for the Provo, trying to get radical groups like the REAL IRA to stand down and stop impeding the negotiations, the Republican had been more than pleased to assist him in his mission.

What McBride had neglected to mention was that it was at the behest of the British and American governments that he was performing the Provo's mission. Michael had tried to remind Mr. Glenanne that their goals were the same while his back was up against the wall and the Irishman's hands were firmly clamped around his throat, demanding an explanation as to why an American spy was courting his sister. Fortunately for him, Sean had believed his sincerity regarding his desire to see the negotiations succeed and his love for Fiona.

He was torn between laughing and lamenting at the memory of his sibling whaling on him for the marks he'd left on Michael's neck and shoulders. It had been funny, but also painful on more than one level. It was the first time he'd lied to Fiona in an attempt to shield her from a harsh reality and, regrettably, it would not be the last.

They'd concocted the story that Sean had bruised him because he blamed her beau for endangering her in England, which wasn't far too from the actual reality of the situation. Both men were determined that she would never learn the truth and both were equally terrified of what the knowledge would do to her tenuous hold over her explosive temper as well as her wounded soul and neither could bear to see her hurt again.

"Fer all the use it wa'," Sean complained loudly as the large white limo finally pulled into view; only the black tires and dark windows standing out against the gleaming white drifts in the background. The driver had been instructed to take them directly to the Andreani's offices located within their stud farm in Kildare for their meeting with Armand and then onto the Glenanne family pub for a reunion of sorts. But then this wouldn't be the first time Sean had gone against what he'd been told or against his better judgment.

The Irishman couldn't help but stare at the man who'd taken over his life albeit remotely at the unspoken behest of his twin as the covert operative emerged from the elongated automobile; subconsciously comparing him to the man he'd fought beside eighteen years ago.

"Michael," he said simply, unsure whether to call him Westen or McBride, as he took the others hand in a tight grip. If anything, his features were more rugged and yet somehow more refined, his hair just as black and his cobalt blue eyes just as intense and as misty as when he'd pleaded with Sean to protect her for him.

As if the spy was remembering the moment too, he pulled Sean into a tight, one-armed bear hug while tightening his grip on their clasped hands that was completely reminiscent of their parting embrace almost two decades ago.

_"Keep her safe for me, Sean," he had begged him, mutual moisture gathering in the corners of both their eyes. "I'll be back in a couple of months, six months tops, with the papers and the clearance to get her out safely. She'll never have to look over her shoulder again, I swear to you."_

_"Don' be gone too long," he'd returned tersely. "Ya know har. I won't be able t'hold har back from coming fer ya ferever."_

"Sean," the other acknowledged as they slowly drew apart, seemingly comparing Mr. Glenanne to his past self as well, who was sure the worry lines in his face were as deeply etched as the cliffs of Moher. After the years of mutually frustrated searching, the reunion felt surreal, the anticipation of it all nearly overwhelming the reality of the event- until Sam emerged from the vehicle and shattered the moment.

"Good to see you conscious again," the older man greeted him as Sean reluctantly released his dark haired brother in arms and moved to shake the other man's hand.

Sean couldn't help the shudder that ran through him then that had nothing to do with the temperature. Even though it had been five years since he had last seen Sam Axe, he hadn't forgotten the feeling of being a human shield for the man nor the agony that had cut through him along with the five high powered rounds as O'Neil's goons had opened fire on them before he could open his mouth to warn the pair what was coming for them.

_He'd met them on the tarmac at the Opa-Locka Airport, intent on loading McBride and his companion into the rented Learjet as quickly as possible. Every blessed time he'd struck his head up during the past eleven years to contact his sister's boyfriend, there'd been someone waiting for him, trying to kidnap or kill him depending on who it was._

_This time it had been O'Neil. Sean had cursed extravagantly, still trying to figure out how once again the bastard had been able to follow him so quickly. But the former guerrilla thought he'd gotten enough of a head start to snatch up the duo and be gone. He hadn't given them any warning of his impending arrival nor time to do more than meet him when he got there. He'd thought that would be enough and again he'd been wrong. Gunfire had rained down on them from the white metal building next to the far edge of the field, leaving multiple holes in the big black car and him too._

He dimly remembered collapsing onto Axe and then the man dragging him into the passenger seat. He'd had to hear about the rest of it when he roused from his coma back in Ireland. Nonetheless, that memory had him scanning the snow-covered landscape for mercenaries in the white out suits as he released Sam's hand.

"I've been wanting to thank you-" the ex-SEAL began.

"Yar welcome," Sean cut him off. He jerked his head toward the Eurocopter as he turned back towards the machine. "Let's be off befer war havin' a repeat performance," he advised, moving swiftly away from them and towards their ride.

The Irishman's brusque reaction had them both searching the surrounding environs and moving toward the center of the helipad as their training and their years of experience had taught them. The dark heavy overcoats that had served them so well in England would have made them easy targets, so there was no wasted movement as they clamored into the Eurocopter along with the driver, who ushered them into the helicopter with the same stern and silent efficiency as he had the limousine.

Sean could feel, without even having to look at him, that Michael was nearly bursting with the effort not to blurt out his questions the moment they were airborne. He was grateful for the driver's presence, even though he was one of Armand's bodyguards, if only because it kept the conversation at a standstill. Mr. Glenanne ground his teeth, frustrated as ever that he had to have anything to do with Armand Andreani or anyone in his employ.

It was a bitter thing indeed to have to acknowledge Armand's contribution to their survival these past fourteen years. The Glenannes' resources and connections had kept them alive, if not well, for the three years right after McBride's departure. But they had had to bury themselves deep to stay free of the spy's enemies and their own. It had become a nasty quandary. If they were hidden well enough to allude their enemies, they were hidden too well for Michael to find them either.

Sean had been forced to conclude since they apparently couldn't contact the American spy without risking capture or death that they'd have to make other, longer term arrangements and, like the devil he was, there was Armand offering everything that was needed for a price. Once more, he'd had to lie to her to get her agreement on the arrangements and of course she'd been the one in the end who had to pay the price.

Mr. Gleanne cast a sideways glance at the dark, dour Frenchman beside him and then back over his shoulder at the Americans in the rear seats. "Ya've waited this long. It'll be soon enough," he advised, before turning this attention back the instruments in front of him and the scenery below him.

As they flew away from the city center, the crowded streets of Dublin soon became widely scattered small towns and villages dotting the frigid landscape. The closer they came to Kildare, the more frequent sight became that of large estates and sprawling horse farms, the details of which were mostly hidden under the fresh layer of frozen precipitation that had fallen the evening before.

He had no intention of answering any of Michael's questions. The man had waited sixteen years already; he could wait a bit more and he'd find out soon enough what had happened. Sean had made enough bad decisions in his life when it came to speaking for someone else and he refused to do it again. He'd told a tale on Michael's behalf to keep Fiona from hunting for him when he hadn't come back within the year and it had worked for a time. The Irishman had been counting on being able to locate and contact his future brother-in-law quickly.

But that wasn't what had transpired because some damned hooligan had always been lying in wait for him and, as a result, he'd lost his sister again. Sean was angry with Michael for being a spy and bringing _that_ into their already complicated, violent lives, like they needed to add _his_ enemies to the long list of foes the Glenannes had already accumulated!

And as furious as he was that Armand had even had to be a part of their lives at all, he had only himself to blame. The soulless wretch had been one of _his_ arms dealer contacts. It didn't matter that he hadn't known what kind of twisted fiend they were dealing with until their lives were already intertwined.

Truth be told, though he was resentful of Michael for necessitating it and incensed with Armand for saying anything about it, he mostly just hated himself; what occurred had been the result of the multiple lies he had told trying to safeguard his sister that had backfired.

_"Ya told me he wa' in jail, Sean!" she roared, her hands now clamping around his throat and constricting his windpipe. He'd almost forgotten how strong she was when she was enraged. The tiny ball of fury slammed him up against the wall, ramming the back of his skull into the drywall and leaving an impressive dent. His head swam from the impact, the lack of oxygen and the guilt as he slowly slid down the wall and crumpled onto the floor. But Fiona didn't release her hold on him, instead sinking down with him as she came to rest upon her knees and glare down at him._

_"Eight damned years I've been waitin' fer me man t'get outta prison and now I find out not only wa' he not in jail, but thot he wa' a spy? Ya lied t'me, the pair of ya! How could ya, ya sorry arses? I canna believe I had t'find out from Armand!" While she'd been living in the south of France for nearly a decade, Fiona's accent had taken on of a necessity a decidedly French lilt. But that had vanished the moment the door had closed and she'd had her twin alone. "What the hell wa' ya thinking? How could ya do this t'me? All this time, he wa' -"_

_"He wa' comin' back fer ya," Sean choked out, cutting her off. "He said he had t'clear it t'get ya outta Ireland. That musta been why they came after us when-"_

_"Whatever it wa' ya two wa' planning, it dinna work out, now did it? I guess none o' thot matters much anymore, now that he's—whot?- 'burned,' is it?" _

_The heat in her voice transformed into that cold rage that he knew all too well. He watched through blurry eyes as the terrifying transformation took place and his sister was gone, once again replaced by the unstoppable radical that had given many a soldier and a loyalist nightmares. _

_"I don' know whot 'burned' means a' yar spy things go, but I __do__ know how t'make things burn."_

_He lay on the floor as she rose to her feet, helpless to stop what was coming. _

_"I goin' t'Miami t'fetch him back," she declared flatly and he knew without having to be told who would be funding the trip._

_"Ya canna go alone, Fiona," he entreated. "Let me-"_

_"I'm takin' Liam wit' me."_

_Sean swallowed thickly. There was only one person in their family crazier than his twin and that was his oldest brother. The youngest Glenanne man had a momentary vision of half of Miami left a smoldering ruin and the other half on fire._

_"Ya canna just leave-" he tried again._

_"I've done the papers. Yar in charge here now, Sean." She fixed him with a deathly stare. "__Anythin'__ happens while I'm gone and I'll kill ya when I get back" _

But it had been Fiona who'd come back on a plane a literally smoldering ruin, burned, unconscious and dependent upon life support just as he would be three years later. Sean glanced over his shoulder again at the pair in the back of the helicopter. He understood being hunted, he'd been both predator and prey in his lifetime, but he couldn't fathom what made the dark haired man so special that they had pursued him so relentlessly, and by extension his family, practically from the moment when McBride should have been back.

Mr. Glenanne set the bird down neatly on the edge of the sprawling estate. The stables and the massive barn where visible in the distance to their right, as was the main house on their left, an imposing stone two story building with a slate tile roof much darker than the sky. While the large sash windows stood out against the background of the pale rock walls, the structure itself blended into the glistening white snow-scape and gave the entire scene an ethereal air.

Sean walked quickly away, the Frenchman at his heels and his guests struggling to keep up on the unfamiliar terrain. He continued at a brisk clip through the tree line at the edge of the estate and towards the hibernating gardens at the rear of the house. The stone path upon which they trod was treacherous with ice underneath the flakes.

Despite the calls behind him, Sean didn't slow his pace or acknowledge them. As they approached the small stand of sleeping apple trees nearest the garden area, he could hear them gaining on him and knew the pair had figured out the best way to navigate the footpath was to walk immediately to either the side of it as he did.

He nodded towards the bodyguard, who veered away from the flagstones and moved directly towards the low bluestone wall that surrounded the dormant gardens. There was no help for it any longer. He stopped and turned back towards them just in time to see Michael trip on some unseen obstacle under the snow and sprawl head first to the hard ground.

"_Damn the fookin' bastard and his sick fookin' jokes,"_ Sean cursed internally. He'd forgotten about the marker next to the bench and the stand of trees, covered as it was by the drifts. He'd wanted to remove the god forsaken thing, but he'd been overruled continually on that matter, too.

As he marched back towards them, he saw Michael get up onto his knees, shaking his head as well as shaking off the offer of assistance from his associate. Regret, Sean's constant companion, welled up bitter in his throat all over again as he saw the dark haired man dust the rest of the snow away from the memorial marker and heard the strangled gasp of anguish as Michael read what was written there.

"Michael," he said, reaching down to give the aforementioned a hand up, "ya don' understand. Thot's not—"

"Yar right, I don' understand," the American's voice taking on an Irish lilt as well as an agonized tremor. "Wot the hell-? Gawd damn ya, man, ya wa' supposed t'keep har safe fer me!" It was hard to say what was more pronounced, the raw pain in his tone or the deep suffering in his eyes.

Something inside Sean Glenanne shattered at that moment and the hurt, the grief and the sorrow intermixed freely with his pent up wrath and erupted to the surface. He cold cocked his sister's lover with a stunning right hook that put the man back on his knees.

"Keep har safe?" he bellowed. "Wot in the name of the blessed virgin do ya think I've been tryin' t'do me whole fookin' life before ya ever set foot here, ya bastard? Damn ya, McBride or Westen or whoever in the hell ya are. Ya warn't thar holding har hand while she wa' screamin' yar name, beggin' ya t'come fer har. She almost died then, ya sonuvabitch. Ya warn't thar watchin' over har lying in hospital burned alive waitin' and wonderin' if she'd ever wake up again! Don' ya dare say t'me thot—"

"Sean!" the call rang out and halted his tirade mid-stream. He recognized the footfalls coming down from the main house and he knew what he had been trying so desperately to prevent was about to happen.

Again.

"Thot's it, I'm done!" Sean said flatly, as he threw his hands up and stepped back, looking from the stunned face of Sam Axe to the tortured gaze of Michael McBride/Westen. "Sort it out fer yarselves then."

The latter's head dropped down, staring back at the marker with unseeing eyes, while the former leaned over him and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. They were so fixated on the words, _Fiona Glenanne 1970-2007 Beloved Wife, _that neither was paying any attention to the person moving towards them from the garden area.

Sean executed a sharp about face and walked slowly away, though it didn't prevent him from listening to the exchange. He heard the older man's footfalls as he turned and then Sam's voice catch when Mr. Axe answered the question inquiring who he was.

"Pleased t'meet ya, Sam Axe and who might ya be?"

The footsteps halted and Sean couldn't help but look back around to gaze upon to the huddled figure staring miserably at the ground as he responded to the query.

"Michael. Michael McBride," he answered haltingly.

"Are ya now?" the young man standing over him replied. "Thot's funny. So am I."

Sean Glenanne turned away again, heading back towards the helipad. His nephew always seemed to know what was going to happen before it did, so there'd really been no point in trying to keep them apart, but his uncle had tried nonetheless. Now, Sean Michael McBride could answer his Da's questions and, no doubt, ask a few of his own.

()()()

**A/N – Thank you as always to everyone's alerted, fav'd and reviewed this story. Reviews are always most gratefully appreciated, though I will be reading them from within my bunker this time (LOL). Thank you to amazing Amanda for the BETA, equally awesome Purdy's Pal for all her help on all things Irish and the incredible Daisy Day for reading through this. The next chapter will be up soon if no one shoots at me in the meantime. **


	6. Sean Michael

"_**To imagine is everything, to know is nothing at all." **__Anatole France_

-ooooo-

_Andreani Estate, outside of Kildare, Ireland, December 2015, 16:08 GMT_

"Another stitch and you'll be all set, Mike."

This wasn't the first time he'd had to sew Michael Westen back together both literally and figuratively under someone's watchful eye. But somehow being under the gaze of his best friend's previously unknown progeny had complicated this operation in unforeseen ways.

When the teenager had first approached them in the hibernating apple grove, Sam had been too absorbed in reading the marker and too busy trying to process what the cold stone, and Sean's abrupt departure, meant for their immediate future or perceived lack thereof in Mike's case.

Once the young man had gotten his attention, the former Navy commander had been stunned almost speechless, something he'd not experienced in a very long time until this recent sojourn into his partner's past. Of course, he was certain that the shock and awe he was feeling was inconsequential compared to what had to be coursing through his colleague at that particular moment.

If sending his mother into permanent protective custody had silenced the dark haired man for three days, Sam could only just imagine what the discovery of his son would do to him, which could be very awkward and non-productive in establishing a relationship with said offspring.

Fortunately, and it felt odd to be grateful for a head wound, Mr. Westen had apparently cut his head when he'd tripped over the proverbial stumbling block hidden in the snow, but it had taken time for the blood to seep through his hair and appear visibly on his face. It had providentially appeared in time to excuse the lack of coherent response from his father and allowed Sam to turn the conversation with Sean Michael toward the medical attention that was now required.

It also allowed the ex-SEAL the opportunity to spin a physical reason, between that and Sean's powerfully delivered punch, for his buddy's silence instead of the emotional upheaval that was at the core of Mike's non-response and it gave the McBrides a reason to embrace, albeit momentarily, when the younger helped haul the elder off the cold ground to his unsteady feet.

Addressing the troublesome topic of what to call the young man had engaged most of the conversation on their walk back into the house, as Sam had pointed out the inherent but obvious confusion of having two people with the same name in the room.

Apparently, his mother had made it clear there was only one Michael, that being his father, and addressing him as Sean wouldn't work well either since his uncle was an omnipresent figure in their collective lives. Michael Senior, and by extension his associate, then learned that his son had gone by a multitude of names in his lifetime.

Apparently he had lived under the name Rene Descoteaux while living the south of France until just after his eighth birthday when he'd been collected along with his grandmother by his Uncle Colin and his Uncle Seamus and returned to Ireland.

He'd been going by the French version of Michael, that being Michel, under the surname Andreani, a protection for which his mother had told him to be grateful, until recently when he had decided he was simply Mike McBride. His Uncle Sean had always called him 'Mike' once they had returned to Ireland, although his mother had never called him anything but the pet name she had given him as a baby, 'Keevan.'

Mr. Axe could tell by the tiny movements in his friend's jaw muscles that _this_ Mike McBride did not care one bit for the fact that his namesake had lived a life that involved cover ID's from the time he was born and particularly that one of them apparently indicated a deliberately chosen relationship with the powerful mob boss they had been scheduled to meet.

The former Navy man looked again at the youth, who was leaning casually on one shoulder against the wall, his leather clad arms folded across his chest and his denim clad legs crossed at the ankles. He was staring openly at his father with a carefully controlled countenance, but Sam saw the curiosity and the longing that also held just a hint of the sorrow and anger that had to be coursing just beneath the surface.

It was surreal, like a faded sepia tone version of an old black and white photograph. He was the spitting image of Mike Westen, specifically the one Sam had known as a recent graduate of Army Ranger School, possessing the same bone structure and body language. Only this one had a shock of auburn hair, a dusting of tiny freckles across his pale checks and intense blue green eyes which surely had to have belonged to his mother. It was that visage that had caught Sam off guard back when they had first been introduced.

They were in what the ex-SEAL supposed was the servant's pantry off of the main kitchen. There was a rectangular table made of an ancient wood in the center of the room with long, hard, dark wooden benches on either side of it. The windows were tall, narrow and frosted on the one wall and the multitude pantry doors on the opposite side were also tall and narrow.

The swinging doors placed in the center of each of the remaining walls made a slight sound as they swished open and closed, but it was more noise than the wordless dark skinned woman had made when she brought a basin of warm water, clothes and a surgical kit and placed them on the table before silently exiting the door at the other end of the room from whence she'd come.

"Ta much," he had called to her as she exited and then had silently watched Sam do his medical magic on the lengthy but swallow slash on his elder's scalp.

"Ya'll be wanting something t'drink or eat now, would ya?" he queried at length, his accent a curious mixture of his native Irish with a soft undercurrent of French phrasing to it. "Do ya fancy anything in particular?"

"Whatever ya have'll be fine. Thank ya kindly," his father responded, speaking for the first time since they'd met.

Sean Michael gave his sire a long look before nodding. Then he pushed off the wall and exited toward the kitchen. As soon as the door swung closed behind him, the pair breathed a collective sigh, though hardly from relief.

"Word of advice, Mikey," he interjected quickly.

Mr. Westen cocked his head to the side, shifting its position under the hand that was gingerly exploring Sam's stitches before reaching for the wet cloth again.

"_Talk_ to the kid and, for god's sakes, make sure it's about something _besides_ Fiona when he gets back. There'll be time enough for that later."

"What am I supposed to say, Sam?" the words practically exploded from his mouth. "Sorry, but no one told me you existed?" he hissed, as sorrow and regret quickly morphed into anger, his time tested resolution for containing his hurts.

Now it was Commander Axe's turn to get momentarily lost in another time and place, as he remembered finally locating his own missing father and the fierce resentment that had welled up in him as their dialogue had consisted solely of the man inquiring about his mother and her well being.

"Be prepared for some of that to come back your way, too, Mikey," Sam advised brusquely as he sat down heavily on the bench on the opposite side of the table. "I know a little bit about this kind of thing."

Mr. Axe was grateful that his friend was too entangled in his own emotional upheaval to ask where or how he had acquired such knowledge.

"Why the hell didn't Sean just tell me?" he asked plaintively, his cobalt blue eyes growing watery. "All this time, all this waiting and she… she —" The torturous words caught in his throat.

Sam sighed heavily and then tried to keep his tone gentle, but firm. "Mike, _your son_ has been waiting his entire life to meet you. You need to focus on what's here and now, brother, and not on what's left behind." This was not the time to get into all the little things that weren't adding up.

Michael closed his eyes tightly and nodded mutely.

"Look, we don't know what the kid knows or doesn't know. And here's another thing you need to keep on your sonar. This is still Armand Andreani's house. I don't know how or why your son is here, but we still have CIA business we need to do with Mr. Andreani sooner or later, business that involves more than finding out why your son was using his last name."

Mike's face twisted into a scowl, but since he refused to look at him for the moment, Sam pressed on.

"This is going to be the most important Intel gathering op you've ever been on in your entire life, buddy. You need get your head outta—"

His partner's eyes snapped open then. The anguish there was deep and multi-faceted, almost staggering, but his jaw was tight and his mouth set in a thin line as he gave a sharp nod of assent. They hadn't survived all these years in a shadow world of covert intelligence without learning how to shake off pain and pursue the mission.

So it was with some greater measure of composure that the two men greeted the arrival of their afternoon tea a few moments later. A short, stout woman with brilliant red hair, looking every bit the archetype of an Irish grandmother bustled into the room carrying an enormous tray laden with an astonishing variety of sandwiches and two steaming mugs which smelled of lemon, cloves and fine whiskey.

"Mind yar places!" she barked as both men started to rise. "I'm old, nae helpless," she continued with a broad smile as she set the tray down on the end the table between them.

"Toddy'll be jus' the thin' t'warm yar bones." She pushed a mug towards each of them. "Tis a proper one wit' good Irish tea and Jameson's. Go on then, et up," the redhead admonished. " Fifi'll be 'round later, so mind ya don' et it all up."

She reached out as she went past Michael and gave his shoulders a surprising strong squeeze for a woman who appeared to be so advanced in years and kissed him on the neck just behind his ear.

"Tis good t'see ya home, man."

Since she had her back to them as she marched out of the room, she missed the barely concealed incredulous looks that passed between the two Americans. On the other hand, Sean Michael did not as he entered the room through the opposite swinging door with a dark green bottle tucked into his arm.

He reached over for a plain pine wood chair sitting against the wall near the door with his free hand and began to drag it on its back legs across the room with him.

"She takes a wee bit o' getting' used ta, but she's a wise ol' gal, she is," he said fondly as he reversed the seat, pulling the chair back up against the end of the table and straddling it. He set the dusty bottle on the table as he settled into his seat, leaning his elbows on the top of the chair back. "She put in me in mind thot Mammy'd been saving this bottle fer ya."

Sam nearly choked when he saw the label on the Irish whiskey. "Jameson's Rarest Vintage Reserve?" He whistled low and touched the glass reverently with his fingertips.

"He bought it fer har 'bout ten years back as a birthday present, so I've been told."

"That's some birthday present," Sam agreed.

Sean Michael chuckled humorlessly. "He bought har the whole distillery, no' jus' the bottle. Point in fact, he bought Pernod Ricard, which owned Jameson's. Acquiring French concerns wot hold Irish assets wa' somethin' o' a specialty o' his," he added, his tone taking on a softly bitter edge as he stared at the gift for a moment, "Been savin' it fer a special occasion."

Michael tried smiling at his son as the young man turned his gaze upon him.

"I wa' startin' t'think ya wa' a myth instead o' a man," he finished mildy.

Mr. Westen took a deep breath and then bit his lip, shaking his head ever so slightly before answering. "I nae wanted thot."

"Then thot'd be both o' us," the younger McBride agreed. "The way she used t'talk about ya, I jus'—" Now it was his turn to exhale loudly. "Expected ya to be taller or somethin'- somehow."

"He gets that a lot," Sam cut in, trying to break the tension.

"Do ya now?" The young man stared hard at his namesake, as if he were trying to read his mind. "Ya must have quite the reputation outside of yar homeland then. Lord knows, thar's still plenty o' talk about ya down at the Black Sand."

Sean Michael didn't miss the flash of recognition in his sire's eyes. That was the pub where he was supposed to have met Sean all those years ago, but instead it was the place where he had met Fiona for the first time. He'd asked for a dance and gotten a revolver pressed into his ribs for his trouble.

"So wot have ya done t'earn such a fierce reputation, sar? It'd seem thot ya leapt tall buildings in a single bound and all thot, or so I've been told."

Mr. Axe chuckled in despite himself. "I don't know about that, but I have seen bullets bounce off of him."

Michael Senior glared at his partner while his son looked between the two of them thoughtfully.

"Does he always do ya talkin fer ya?"

"Usually," they said together.

It was kind of disturbing watching the familiar and yet unfamiliar face formulate his response to their obvious relationship. Commander Axe could almost see the same wheels turning as he did with his father and it was an odd experience to say the least given that he'd only met the teenager some hours before.

"So, then," he was looking at Sam, but the questions were clearly meant for Michael. "Wot have the pair of ya been up to these last eight yars? I mean I know, being in prison and all, he couldn't drop round fer holidays, but I find meself wonderin' wot took up all yar time afterwards? Did ya really mean t'leave har, to leave us, t'deal with this all on our own? Do ya know wot's she'd had t'do t'keep us safe?"

"I'm curious," Sam interjected before his associate could answer. "What did your mother and your uncle tell you?"

The blue green eyes turned from one to the other before settling on the elder McBride. Now he was addressing the older man, but his intense gaze never left his Da.

"Thot wa' the thing, ya see, there never wa' much said. Nana didn't know and apparently neither did Uncle Colin or Uncle Seamus, or so they said. O' course now, the two thot wa' meant t'be knowing never did have much t'say on the subject."

The youth cocked his head then and let out an exasperated sigh, a gesture of frustration so Mike-like that the ex-SEAL had to put all his training in play to keep from smiling at it.

"She said ya wa' a great patriot, imprisoned for the Cause, fer protectin' yar family, or so I wa' told. Uncle Sean said when she didn't come back from goin' t'fetch ya thot ya war fightin' them wot meant t'harm us."

Mike's son paused and swallowed thickly, his eyes growing misty for just a moment.

"Mammy and Uncle Sean wa' always talkin' about ya, how much they missed ya, how they couldn't wait t'see ya and about wot'd be like when ya got home." He paused and shook his head again, blinking away the moisture. "Hiding out in Marseilles wa' probably better'n prison, I'd suppose, but some days it warn't."

Regret was written large all over Michael Senior's face, which was good because was also plain that the man couldn't find his voice at the moment at all. It was his turn to swallow loudly as he nodded his acknowledgement of the anguish his absence had caused. His partner could tell that not knowing that he had done it in no way alleviated any of the guilt he felt for it.

"Matter o' fact," his son continued as he regrouped. "I found meself in the curious position o' havin' t'ask round the pub to get some answers about ya, seein' as how Mammy and Uncle Sean war tight as a Scotsman purse when it came t'war ya might be and wot ya wa' doin'."

He leaned back away from them then, critically eyeing their untouched food and drink as he straightened in the chair.

"She'll have yar heads if ya don' at least drink yar toddies," he remarked. Sean Michael's fondness for the old woman was obvious. "Go on, eat up whilst I tell ya a tale thot I h'ard down at the pub."

Knowing that Mike was feeling too overwhelmed to eat, Sam snatched up two of the nearest sandwich wedges and began to chew. SEALs were trained to eat anything anywhere after all. The cheese and pickle contents were surprisingly pleasing to his American palate, although the texture was odd to say the least. He found himself wishing for a little differentially cured pig to go in between. But the bread was freshly made and that enticing aroma still clung to it.

"I met a man over a pint one fine night then, not so very long ago it twas, who said he'd be delighted t'take me t'meet a man who said thot he knew ya well."

Mr. Westen's eyes flashed and his jaw tightened reflexively. Sam wondered whether it was the implication of the underage drinking or the fact that the pub in question was over two hours away in Belfast that bothered him more. Mike tried to cover up by drinking deeply from the warm mug, but the young man caught the gesture nonetheless as surely as his long time companion had. Obviously, his progeny was every bit as observant and intelligent as his colleague was.

Or maybe it was the fact that they both knew that Frank Westen's eldest boy had done much worse at a much younger age that sparked the reaction. Regardless of the reason, the air between them was suddenly charged with a crackling mixture of defiance and heartache.

"With all due respect, sar, ya don' get t'judge me now when ya've nae bothered t'be har before now and I've nae been too young fer anything else life's decided t'hand me up til now whether I wanted it or nae."

The older man knew if he had no idea what to say to that, then Mike was going to be pretty clueless on that front himself. Sam opted for picking up another sandwich instead.

"So, who exactly did you end up meeting with?" he queried.

Sean Michael reached forward and snatched up a few sandwich pieces himself. Chewing thoughtfully, he announced. "He said his name was Thomas O'Neil."

It took everything in their mutual reserves not to choke on their respective food and drink as his offspring announced that he had met with a man who'd tried to have them both killed on several occasions.

"We met a couple o' times, the last in a car park 'round an abandoned warehouse. Seemed quite an odd place fer a meetin' and thar wa' somethin' about the man I nae cared for. But ya needn't worry, Mammy taught me well. I came prepared thot night, thot I did."

The former naval commander found himself dreading the next words.

"He remembered ya well. Said ya wa' the reason he'd be walkin' wit' a cane the rest o' his life. But somehow on thot fine evenin', the spirit o' charity came over him and it seemed thot he felt compelled t'share a tale wit' me."

Placing this hands on his thighs, the teenager leaned slightly forward, causing his jacket to gap, and he stared straight into his father's eyes with an unflinching gaze. It was then Mr. Axe noticed that Mike's son was armed, well armed if he knew his gun handles, which he did. Sam didn't envy his buddy one bit.

"He tried t'tell me thot me father was an American spy, not a patriot from Kilkenny. He tried t'tell me thot ya'd used Mammy, used har t'infiltrate and destroy the REAL IRA, the true patriots of the Republic. He tried t'tell me thot ya used har like she wa' nothin' more than a pawn t'ya and then ya left har behind t'bare yar bastard without so much as a backward glance."

It was all Sam could to do to keep his jaw from hanging open. He sincerely hoped Mike's self control was up to the task as well. The junior McBride sat up straight in the chair then and crossed his arms tightly.

"I'm guessin' somehow O'Neil wa' thinkin' thot I'd a Glenanne temper t'go wit' me colorin'. I'm guessin' somehow thot Mr. O'Neil thought thot if he got me riled up enough thot I'd succumb to that temper. I'm guessin' thot Mr. Thomas O'Neil got it inta thot thick skull o' his thot he could somehow get me riled up enough t'murder me own father for him once ya set foot on Irish soil again."

Sean Michael nodded his head as though he were contemplating a particularly troubling math problem as he looked down at the table for just a moment.

"I'm guessin' thot's wot he thought. O' course, wot he didn't think much about wa' whether o' not I wa' more like ya or more like Mammy. I've been told, ya see, thot I _can be_ a cold, calculating bastard, just like ya wa'. So maybe they'll put thot on his headstone, if they can find enough pieces o' him t'bury thot is."

It suddenly felt as cold in that small pantry as it surely was on the other side of those high frosted windows. The youth chuckled then, but it was not a pleasant sound by any means.

"So t'would seem I've a bit more than a touch o' Glenanne in me as well." He took in the guarded expressions of his elders on either side of him with a bitter but also bemused smile.

Suddenly, his visage turned vacant for just a moment as he stared blindly at the swinging door at the far end of the room which led to the kitchen. Then his features darkened into anger, more akin to cold fury, though it was obviously directed elsewhere when he rose from the chair and cursed.

"Thot sorry sonuvabitch," he grounded out through clenched teeth. "I'll kill the bastard." He was drawing his weapon and halfway out of the room before either of them could react.

"Stay here," he commanded over his shoulder as he barreled through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

Mike was on his feet and rifling through the many drawers in the countertops under the cold windows in the next instant. "Check the drawers first," he commanded.

Sam didn't need to be told that they were looking for means to arm themselves with as well. They had only the non-metallic blades hidden in their clothes for defense and he didn't have to be an Irishman to know you didn't bring a knife to a gun fight if you wanted to live long. Given their location, he didn't question Mike's assumption there would be weapons hidden about the room somewhere.

They soon found a couple of Glocks stashed in various crockery in the pantry and armed themselves accordingly. Sam had a momentary flash of disrupting shipments of said pistols amongst other arms from Libya to Ireland back in the day before focusing on moving into the kitchen cautiously enough to not alarm anyone that might be there while not get themselves shot as well.

Fortunately, the kitchen was empty except for their hostess and the quiet dark skinned woman who'd appeared early with the medical supplies.

"War's Sean Michael got off to then?" he asked as casually as he could manage, looking down into the lively green eyes as she gazed up at him from over a pot of Irish stew she was tending to.

"Ack, thot boy o' yars," she tsked as the steam from the cooking wafted gently around her head. "I've tol' him til I'm blue in me face not t'run about wit' a gun."

The pair was not sure whether to be relieved or appalled by her nonchalance.

"Yelled somethin' about needin' t'see Fifi. Well, he cannae go t'the other side jus' like thot."

Before Mike could question her about what she'd meant, there was the muffled sound of gun fire from far off in the distance. Though Sam knew they lacked the necessary intel for the pursuit, there was no stopping his brother in arms as he bolted for the nearest exit in the direction of that sound.

"Ya'll be shot dead if ya don' put those bloody things away!" she called after them, but they were already into the main entrance of the great house as her words echoed behind them.

"Hold up, Mikey!" Sam called, but it was too late. A heavily muscled man carrying a nasty looking assault rifle and wearing an earpiece to finish out his uniform that clearly indicated he was a well paid security guard appeared out of nowhere and had already struck Mr. Westen in the side of the head with the butt of said rifle before the covert operative even had a chance to turn. The dark haired man collapsed on the floor in a heap, the automatic weapon spinning away from his suddenly lifeless fingers.

"Damn, there go my stitches," the ex-SEAL muttered as he raised his hands in surrender, feeling the barrel of an AK-47 compressing his spine. "Excuse me, Bruno, but we really are guests here," he continued as he felt the automatic being taken from his open hand. "I'm hoping there's something in your personnel manual about not shooting unarmed guests in the back, so when I walk over there and take a look at my buddy right now, you're not going to decide to use me for target practice."

Apparently, Mr. Axe was right because neither of them did more than watch cautiously as he knelt by Mike's side, Yep, the stitches were broken, the wound was bleeding again and he was unconscious.

Sam was beginning to suspect it might be better if he stayed that way for a little while.

"Can you guys give me a hand? If you're done capturing us, my friend could use some medical attention now," he called aloud, sincerely hoping that this wouldn't ultimately end with a funeral for either of the McBrides.

Whatever their motivation before, the guards appeared to have gotten confirmation from whomever was on the other end of those earpieces, as they stooped down and lifted the limp form of Michael McBride Westen off the polished marble floor. If he hadn't been to so busy worrying about his best friend, Sam might have taken the time to appreciate the resources that had gone into the opulent entryway.

When he finally had Mike cleaned up, re-stitched and bandaged up in a surprisingly well stocked little infirmary of a room, Sam glimpsed the arrival of a feminine figure in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. Not really looking back at her, the former commander decided maybe it was better if he made a trip to the... what was it they called in here? The en suite?

He was washing his hands and then splashing cold water on his face as he heard her cross the room.

"Ack,wot have they done t'ya?" Her anguish was plain. "Ya poor man."

He heard Mike groan and then croak in a barely audible voice, "Fi?"

"Aye, tis Fifi. Ya rest now. We'll talk later when ya feel better."

His friend had sighed what sounded like an assent and had presumably gone back under.

Sam could no longer contain his raging curiosity and came back into the room. But, he soon found himself stunned speechless for the second time that day when the decidedly _young_ woman looked up at him from her perch on the bedside, her pale features framed by a curtain of long, straight coal black hair and those terribly familiar cobalt blue eyes stared back at him from her delicate face.

"Ya mus' be Sam Axe," she said politely, nodding her head towards him.

The aforementioned was saved the faux pas of not speaking when Sean Michael strode back into the room and stood at her side, his body language screaming "protector" in silent, but no uncertain terms.

"Whar are me manners?" the young man said as he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Sam Axe, this is me twin sister, Claire Michelle."

And Mr. Westen's long time partner suddenly found himself very grateful for a head wound yet again that day because he was certain that would be easier to recover from than what had just transpired and what would be waiting for him when Mike finally regain consciousness.

()()()()

**A/N: Another apology for the long time between updates and another huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed, fav'd and alerted this tome. I once again find myself grateful to amazing Amanda for her quick BETA skills, equally awesome Purdy's Pal for helping me while I bounced ideas off her in every direction and the utterly incredible Daisy Day for keeeping us laughing every day and much love to CJ for putting up with all my TMI alerts lately and to all the wonderful ladies on Twitter, you know who you are! I am forever grateful to Matt Nix and his brilliance. S6 rulez!**


	7. Claire Michelle

**_"You learn to speak by speaking, to study by studying, to run by running, to work by working; in just the same way, you learn to love by loving_**." Anatole France

_Andreani Estate, outside of Kildare, Ireland, December 2015, 18:58 GMT_

It was dark and he was disoriented.

His jaw was throbbing and his ears were ringing, but somehow the massive headache which was radiating from the top of his skull into every nerve ending in his head made that of secondary importance. It slowly dawned on him that the blackness was related to his eyelids weighing about a thousand pounds each, and the effort to open them was beyond his capacity at that moment.

Some time ago, and Michael really wasn't sure how long ago, someone had come into the room and sat beside him on the bed. He'd thought it was Fiona, or maybe he just wanted it to be Fiona so badly that he'd imagined it…He'd called out to her and then…

_"Aye, tis Fifi. Ya rest now. We'll talk later when ya feel better."_

But the voice had been off and he wasn't sure what was real anymore. Memories he could never fully escape sometimes taunted him at inopportune times. Michael knew he was laying on a fairly comfortable bed, which was an improvement over any number of circumstances he'd woken up to in his life, but he still needed to assess his situation.

Unfortunately, the very thought of opening his eyes or sitting up was making him queasy. Even trying to raise his hand or turn his head was sending waves of nausea rolling from his stomach to the top of his throat.

"Whoa there, brother, you're not going anywhere."

_Sam._

"Trust me; you need to lay flat and stay asleep right now."

_Trust me._ He trusted Sam so implicitly at this point that it was redundant to speak those words. Which is precisely why it was their code phrase for: _No matter what you hear or see, do exactly what I say because I know better than you what is going on right now_.

And since his aching, exhausted body was in total agreement with his friend's orders, he let the darkness have him until…

"I can take care o' meself!"

"Dinnae look like thot from whar I wa' standin'."

….Voices...

"If ya warn't such a damned hothead, we'd not have the problem now, eh?"

"I wa' aimin' fer tha family jewels. It warn't me fault he tried t'take off with tha family fortune instead!"

…Voices so almost familiar and yet somehow not quite right…

"Gran woulda done a better job o' it with a rusty butter knife if thot's all ya meant t'do."

"Thar's no use goin' on about it, tis done!"

…Strident, exasperated voices…

"Aye, tis thot, but didja have t'kill him, ya bloomin' idijit?"

His whole life has been filled with angry people using angry words. He didn't want to hear any more; he couldn't forget what he'd already heard in his lifetime. He wanted to shut the voices out, but they wouldn't go away as memories welled up to fill the silence when the other voices that were arguing had moved on and faded into the background.

_"Jesus H. Christ, woman, ya can't be that gawd damned stupid!" _as fists impacted flesh_._

_"Why did you let him do that? You're supposed to be watching Nate!" _as glass broke_._

_"Mike, wait up! C'mon, man, hold up! Wait for me!" _as feet pounded on the pavement behind him.

_"Oh, there's gonna be hell t'pay now, boy!" _as a leather belt whistled through the air_._

_"Why do you have to antagonize your father like that?" _as the tears began to fall_._

_"Dammit, Mike, I just need a sawbuck 'til Friday! I gotta sure thing!"_ as he slammed the door so hard it vibrated in the frame.

_"I am sick! I can't do this by myself. Why can't you come home_?" as he crushed the phone in his hand and heard the plastic crack with a satisfying snap.

_No more, no more arguments!..._ He'd gone half way around the world to get away from those … no….no, wait…wasn't he trying to get back to family? Yes, that was it- he wanted to get back to his _immediate_ family.

But that didn't make sense either. Why would he want to get back to his family? It had always been better when he and his mother weren't in the same hemisphere. But ….

_~~Dusty roads, hopeless nights, looking at blinding lights.~~_

His mother… pictures of Madeline Westen filled his head. The images were there as always, but all jumbled up, mixed together, out of sequence. She was young, she was old, she was smiling, she was crying, she was bruised, battered, bleeding, begging…

She was gone.

_~~Saw your ghost in here tonight. It lingers on and I feel your life~~_

He had sent her away for her own sake, for his sake, for both their sakes.

_~~Pulling me back to the place~~_

The remembrance forced its way to the surface and he didn't have the strength to fight it off. He couldn't forget. He'd never been allowed to.

_~~But the thought of staring back at you is more than I can face.~~_

They had been sitting at the table in the dining room of his childhood home on North River Drive. It had been time for his mother to go into permanent protective custody. Out the kitchen door, through the back fence, into the waiting car and his once estranged mother would be just another reminiscence that haunted him like all the rest.

_"I don't like this, Michael."_

_"I know, Mom." _

She'd inhaled deeply and then blown the plume of smoke out with an irritated noise.

_"We already discussed this," he had reminded her._

_"I know, but I still don't like it."_

_"Mom," _he'd huffed, rolling his eyes and looking up at the ceiling as his head fell back on his shoulders dramatically. He'd hoped the familiarity of the gesture would distract her.

_"But you'll be all alone here, Michael."_

_"Mom, I have a team." _

_"A team, huh?" _He had grimaced as she'd lit the next cigarette with the butt of the last.

_"Yes, that's all well and good that you have people to help you with—what you do." _Since Jesse's death, his mother had become less keen to be included in all the details of his life._ "But what about you, Michael? I worry about you being all by yourself."_

_"Don't let Sam hear you say that."_

_"You know that's not what I'm talking about!" _she groused, punctuating her point with a jab of her smoke and a little cascade of ash._ "Nate has—Ruth." _

He had chuckled internally- still not a big fan of her daughter-in-law, though his mother had been trying to work on her attitude and Madeline really hadn't had a choice in the matter. He'd wondered how she would've reacted if she'd known the truth about Ruth.

_"And they have Charlie and little Maddy," _she'd continued brightly and her other son had to admire the effectiveness of Nate's obvious flattery_. "But what about you? You don't have anyone special. You should find yourself a nice girl when all this over. "_

He hadn't bothered to tell her he'd already found the girl, he just needed it to be over._ "Okay, a nice Catholic girl." _It'd been as much of an admission as he would to make_._

_"Really, Michael? You see, you get that sarcastic streak from your father."_

He had gazed at her levelly. No other reply had been required.

Then she had gone into defensive mode._ "Why on the earth would you want a religious girl? They won't even kiss you until you're married to them."_

That had made him smile in spite of himself. He had a momentary flash of his, "good Catholic girl" gloriously flushed and naked astride him. He had pushed the thought away quickly, but his bemused expression had lingered.

And his amusement had put her on the offensive._ "Well, you shouldn't be kissing women you're not married to, anyway!"_

He had laughed out loud then. His mother had been dispensing that same advice since she'd caught him giving a much older girl a tonsillectomy in the back seat of his stolen car de jour at the height of the herpes epidemic back in the early'80's. He'd just been grateful at the time that she'd caught him before he'd deflowered them both.

_"I'll try to remember that," _he'd assented, as though he'd actually had an option to do otherwise. Still, it had been a long time since he'd been that light hearted in his mother's presence and it had mollified her somewhat_._

_"Well, just remember this, too. You don't get to pick your family; they pick you and, even though you have to do things that are hard sometimes, in the end, it's worth it."_

His good humor had vanished that fast and Madeline had sighed as she had seen his expression harden again.

_"I just want you to be happy, Michael. Even if apples don't fall far from the tree that doesn't mean you don't plant one."_

_"O-kay." _He'd plainly had no idea what she was talking about_._

_"When you have kids, they turn out to be just like you; little apples that don't fall far from the tree." _

_"Maybe you should have planted an orange tree instead," _he had remarked, effectively ending the conversation. It was Nate's job to provide her with grandchildren. It was one of the few things his younger brother seemed to do well, although obviously Nate hadn't done it alone and Ruth had done the majority of work. What else was new?

Then they had sat in silence, as the implications of what they were about to do had washed over them both one final time. She was to go out the back door, meet up with Rebecca Lange and be whisked away to become someone else while he and Sam arranged for the electrical fire meant to burned away that part of his past permanently.

_~~And it's a long way down from where I used to rest my head~~_

Decades of hurt feelings had finally been set aside; they'd finally reconciled—and then she'd become leverage against him and now they were separating once again, forever.

_~~And it's safe and sound. If only I could turn around~~_

Part of him had wondered if it wouldn't have been better if he'd never come home.

_~~There's no direction where I stand, just dead end signs and wasted land~~._

_"Let's just get this over with," _she had said suddenly, leaving her home with nothing more than the clothes on her back, a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds in her hand.

_~~And it's a long way down, it's a long way now to you~~_

He couldn't have agreed more at the time. Little did he know just then that he would to spend the next three days actually missing the foul stench of cigarette smoke.

Madeline's son forcefully pushed the rest of that recollection away and happily let the blackness have him again.

_()()_

It was some time later, Michael felt the bedside depress again. He was too far away from consciousness and Sam's admonition to stay asleep kept him from seeking it. Somehow, he knew there was something too enormous to deal with looming out there on the edge of awareness and he was _so_ exhausted. He couldn't recall ever being this tired and _that _in and of itself was saying something.

So, if Mr. Axe had assured him it was safe to rest, then it was and he would.

A small hand laid itself over his. The touch was gentle, but the skin was rough. It was simultaneously recognizable, but wrong somehow. Another hand caressed his cheek and again the feeling of familiarity and strangeness caused him to almost shy away.

He felt rather than heard the sigh. Then a weight was laid over his heart… Someone's head was on his chest-? He knew he should wake up, but he didn't want to. Still…

It took all his strength of the moment to will his hand to move from where it lay on his stomach towards whoever was occupying the space over his sternum. Michael felt movement and then his limb decided it was too heavy to move anymore and dropped.

The hair on the whoever's head was closely cropped and oddly textured. He couldn't ever recall encountering it before, but the spy was too weary to delve into the mystery.

He returned to Sam's promise that he was okay if he didn't.

Mr. Westen drifted for a moment—or two?- and then the weight and the warmth withdrew itself. That made him sad somehow and he wanted the comfort to return. Lips pressed against his cheek, lingered a second and were gone. He wanted them to stay, but the thought of the first time _she _had kissed his cheek suddenly took him away.

_~~Well I was moving at the speed of sound. Head-spinning, couldn't find my way around~~_

Michael had never been sure what combination of deity, circumstances or intention on his friend's part he had to thank for the meeting, but when he had seen Fiona Glenanne for the first time in that dingy little bar in Belfast, he had known then.

_~~And didn't know that I was going down, yeah, yeah~~_

He'd meant to have a meet with her brother at the Black Sand Pub that night. Bad enough that he'd connected with Sean Glenanne in the time he'd been in Ireland. They had been fighting for the same thing, albeit for different reasons, but an identical goal.

_~~Where I've been, well it's all a blur. What I was looking for I'm not sure~~_

Perhaps it was his older siblings' tendencies to beat sense into Sean that had forged the alliance. Michael had certainly sympathized with the resentment and distance that came with that dynamic as well Sean's overwhelming need to try to protect his sister and her twin's self-proclaimed miserable failures to do so. It was all too familiar ground.

_~~ Too late and didn't see it coming. Yeah, yeah~~ _

But when he had seen her that night for the first time, he'd been stunned by the darkness that hung over her like a pall, trying to consume the passionate fire that radiated from within her. He'd known plenty black hearts in his day and she was one of the worst if her reputation was to be believed. But it had been the core of love and light that refused to be consumed by her evil acts that had drawn him to the tiny Irish woman like the proverbial moth to the flame.

_~~ And then I crashed into you and I went up in flames~~ _

Michael had understood back then the incredulous looks that had flashed his way as he'd approached the corner booth where she'd been conducting the REAL IRA's business, looks that said whether he was insane or merely stupid, he was a dead man.

_~~ Could've been the death of me, but then you breathed your breath in me~~_

He'd asked her for a dance. Simple enough request, though he had no business making contact with her like this. Sean was his asset, not his sister. She was too well known a radical for such a direct approach. His handlers would've been infuriated.

_~~ And I crashed into you, like a runaway train~~_

Fiona had waved off the multiple men surrounding her as they'd all started to stand and simultaneously draw their weapons. She'd walked sinuously towards him, her standard uniform of jeans, jumper and heavy boots doing nothing to detract from her feral femininity. The gleam in her eye had been predatory, but the slow smile that blossomed over her features said she'd been intrigued by his audacity.

_~~You will consume me, but I can't walk away~~_

Michael had continued to flash his best winning smile as he stared into those stormy blue green eyes. He'd felt like he could see straight into her soul, which was probably why he'd missed the snub nosed revolver until it was firmly pressed into his stomach. Ignoring the cold metal, the dark haired man had taken her free hand into his and laid his other on her waist. Tugging her gently forward, he'd closed the gap between them.

_~~Somehow, I couldn't stop myself. I just wanted to know how it felt~~ _

He'd tossed off a line about assuming that was a yes since she hadn't killed him yet and waited for her response. Fiona's smile had grown to match his own as she'd shoved the revolver into the front of his jeans, expanding the bulge at the zipper. She'd then wrapped her freed-up arm around his back, pressing their bodies more firmly together.

_~~Too strong, I couldn't hold on, yeah, yeah~~_

As they'd begun to sway slowly out of time with the music, it'd soon become apparent that something else was as hard and unyielding as the pistol she'd tucked into his pants. He'd swallowed thickly and she had chuckled lightly at his chagrin, jibing about whether it was hardware or him being happy to meet her.

_~~Now I'm just tryin' to make some sense out of how and why this happened~~_

As the song came to end, Fiona's hand had drifted down until it'd rested just above his back pockets. Then she'd reached up under his sweater and removed his automatic from the waistband of his demins, her eyes never leaving his, her smile never wavering.

Drawing apart, she'd been silently mouthing _"until next time,"_ when Fiona'd leaned up, letting her lips brush briefly over his cheek before turning her back on him, clearly dismissing him. The Irish woman had sauntered away with his weapon and his heart.

_~~Where we're heading, there's just no knowing, yeah, yeah~~_

He'd come to senses enough to realize that it had been long past his cue to leave. As he'd backed away from the tiny dance floor, the crowd had filtered in around him, filling up the space. The air of stunned silence had been palpable and the low buzz that had characterized the bar upon his entrance had only returned after this departure.

_~~From your face, your eyes are burning to me. You saved me; you gave me just what I need, oh, just what I need.~~_

Even with perfect recall, he still couldn't say how long he'd spent sitting in his stolen car three blocks away trying to piece together what had just happened.

Michael felt yet another hand lay over the top of his and then it slid down to wrap thumb and forefinger over the pulse point at his wrist. These digits were larger and calloused, but he was too wrapped up in the images of being enraptured _by her_ to care.

()()

He had no idea how much time had passed when a single blinding white light pierced his sight and his consciousness. Michael groaned and tried to move away, but again his muscles were sluggish and loath to obey.

"Just checking your eyes, Mikey. That was quite a whack you took, well, several of them actually," Sam chuckled. _Glad __he__ could see the humor in the situation_. "Looks like you've gotten past the concussion, brother." There was relief in the tone. "I think it'll be okay to give you something for the pain now."

The needle prick was nothing compared to what the rest of him felt like. As much as he _hated_ drugs and the after effects, Michael was grateful now as the numbness spread throughout his limbs and the searing pain in his head toned down to merely a dull ache.

There must have been something for the nausea as well because his stomach began to settle. The former spy had an extremely high tolerance for pain, but he was just too exhausted to fight it anymore, so he didn't. _Been fighting for so long, fighting for her_….Since he couldn't stop the flood of memories this time, so he didn't even try.

The second time he had seen her, he had been driving the getaway truck. She had slid into him as her brother had pushed in behind her and slammed the door of their stolen transportation, its rear compartment full of weapons, explosives and REAL IRA members who just couldn't believe their good fortune and probably shouldn't have.

_"Is it next time?" _he had quipped before Sean had glared and shouted for him to get his ass as well as the lorry in gear. Michael had been grateful for the long winding drive and the confined space in the cab that had pressed her up against him, the smell of perfume and gunpowder mixing enticingly on her skin as she pointed the way, hands by his face.

Fiona had continued to play hard to get, only it wasn't an act. She _was_ hard to get at, to get near. Sean's sister had a quick temper, no tolerance for things that didn't meet her approval and an insatiable appetite for violence and destruction. But somehow, he'd managed to meet her approval more than others. Like that first night, she'd dared him to risk her wrath and, since that first night, the initial results had been mixed at best.

He had tried to keep that flirtatious edge to their relationship, but he'd quickly and painfully learned that when she was on the job, she was _on the job_ and nothing more.

The images began to accelerate, one bleeding into another with greater frequency.

_~~'Cause what I want and what I need has now become the same thing you've been offering. ~~_

Fiona fighting next to him, guns blazing and explosions aplenty; fighting with him, tempers flaring as they disagreed on their tactical analysis of the situation; her fists pummeling him as she vented her displeasure at his "poor" marksmanship; her gradual change in attitude as he introduced her to the concept of targeted retribution; Sean's approval as his dark haired comrade slowly turned his sister away from her rage.

_~~As days go by, I've finally become what you want me to be~~_

The reminiscence became sweeter, then unbearably bittersweet: her hands went from striking and slapping him to caressing and holding him, sometimes clinging desperately to him as she screamed at night. Visions of her, of her features, so delicate and yet so harsh, that softened only for him, the long auburn mane, flashing eyes, bewitching smile.

_~~I look around me and I want you to be there, cause I miss the things that we shared.  
>Look around you. It's empty, and you're sad, 'cause you miss the love that we had.<br>You used to talk to me like I was the only one around, the only one around.~~_

Her tiny perfect frame, once only swathed in heavy clothes and fatigues, became wrapped in robes and towels, wrapped in sheets, then blankets and then thick quilts, as they were lying beneath them, wondrously wrapped in nothing but each other's arms.

_~~ We used to have this figured out; we used to breathe without a doubt.  
>When nights were clear, you were the first star that I'd see.<br>We used to have this under control. We never thought; we used to _know. ~~_._

They had been an effective team, had become compatriots and companions. Then they were friends and then they were lovers and now they had become _soul mates_.

_~~ At least there's you and at least there's me. Can we get this back? Can we get this back to how it used to be?~~_

"Oh, dinnae do thot, no... Shhhh…" Anxious hands stroked his face and clasped his hand. "Shhhh, dinnae weep now. It'll be fine, it'll all be fine."

_Weep? _That caught his attention more fully and he tried to focus. _Who was crying?_

"Whot's wrong with him, Mr. Axe? Why won' he wake up?"

Michael wanted to stay in the moment and respond to the question, but he didn't have the answer and the inquiry triggered another flood of memories he couldn't control, recollections of another time when his body was wracked with pain, where other voices lingered just outside the reach of consciousness, familiar voices filled with the same concern and the same questions, while he struggled to reach them through the fog.

_"Why won' he wake up, Liam?"_

_"Dey've beat ham t'wifin inch o' his life, girl. Ah gave ham sumthin' t' keep ham quiet." _

Now he recalled why he _never_ took pain killers if he could avoid it. As hard as he fought, he couldn't break free of the drug induced stupor or the clutches of awful memories.

He had been in Nigeria, ordering a wire transfer for a Russian warlord. With a good lead on a local arms dealer who'd had connections to the Glenannes back in the day, the spy was most keen to get the job over with and get on with his _real _mission in the gun running capital of Africa when…_"We got a burn notice on you. You're blacklisted." _

Afterwards, the body guards had beaten him senseless and the only blessing in the whole sorry mess had been when they had taken him into a bathroom with all its useful hard surfaces to wash off the blood and vomit, the cold water reviving him.

Even with already broken bones, he had managed to not do any further damage to himself while taking out the two Africans whose job it had been to get answers from him and then dispose of his body. Now someone else would be disposing of theirs.

He hadn't been as lucky when he laid the bike down near the airport, but apparently someone had ordered the Nigerian military to make sure he got on the plane because they'd half dragged, half carried him onto the prop plane waiting on the tarmac for him.

He had a dim memory of an altercation, of being grabbed and pulled and then dropped, but he remembered quite clearly screaming as his battered body met the pavement and it had been a very long time since he had allowed pain to make him cry out like that.

He hadn't known where he was when he had roused again. The artificially chilled atmosphere had told him he was in an air conditioned somewhere. He'd been in a hospital often enough to recognize the feel of needles and strategically placed medical tape, but the bed was certainly not a hospital bed or even a field hospital bed. A woman was speaking… a moment of sobbing, then sniffling and then, much later…. _singing_?

_~~Taken all I could take and I cannot wait. We're wasting too much time. Being strong, holding on.  
>Can't let it bring us down. My life with you means everything, so I won't give up that easily. I'll blow it way, blow it away. Can we make this something good? 'Cause it's all misunderstood. Well, I'll try to do it right this time around.~~ <em>

Once upon a time, he'd heard a voice like that, so severe when issuing orders, become soft and lilting as she'd whispered in the dark, but he couldn't recall ever hearing her sing. He hadn't been able to make out the words the first time he'd heard them, but he'd had plenty of time to listen to them over and over since then, searing them into his soul.

_~~Let's start over. I'll try to do it right this time around. It's not over, 'cause a part of me is dead and in the ground. This love is killing me, but you're the only one. It's not over.~~_

Someone had to have given him pain killers and a lot of them, since everything was a nauseating blur. As his head swirled and his stomach rebelled, Michael wondered absently if he would really have preferred to hurt. He hadn't been sure how long he'd been in that room. The voices had stayed on the edge of his understanding, but he'd known deep in his heart that she'd come for him; that Fiona had been taking care of him and that she would take him home soon and they would finally be together at long last.

_Except that's not what happened in the end, was it?_

There had been a lot of movement and probably cursing. Though the words were not plain, the sentiment was. After floating in a miasma of mismatched memories, Michael had been ready to be awake as he felt himself rushing towards consciousness. That is until he'd actually awoken, finding himself completely alone in that dreary Miami hotel room with no evidence as to who had been there or where they had gone.

He'd sat up on the bed and taken inventory of himself, his head pounding. His bare torso that'd been visible above the large wrap probably intended to secure broken ribs had been covered with fading bruises and healing slashes. His limbs below his rolled up pants legs had been in a similar bruised condition on the left and a brace had obscured the view on the right. His right arm had been wrapped tight in an unforgiving ace bandage and both his hands had ached, no doubt some tiny fractures there as well.

_~~Feeling overwhelmed, I take a dive to a once overfilled but now empty place to hide.~~_

Where had everyone gone? He'd been certain there had been people there, tending to his wounds and watching over him, taking care of him. Why had they left him behind?

_~~The day you turned on me is the day I died.~~_

He had moved stiffly towards the window, peering out the blinds. As he'd taken in the two FBI agents watching him from their large grey Ford, it had come back to him in a flash. He'd been _burned_, cast aside like yesterday's garbage, and evidently whoever had been tending to him had now abandoned him as well.

~_~And I've forgotten what it's like and how it feels to be alive~~._

His foot had snagged something as he'd turned away and headed back towards the bathroom. The now former covert operative had bent down slowly and caught hold of a backpack that had apparently been kicked under the bed in someone's hasty exit. But he'd grabbed the wrong end and the clothing had spilled out onto the bed and the floor along with a hauntingly familiar CD player. There had been no ID's, no money, no passports, nothing useful to help him get out of the mess he'd found himself in.

_~~Every time I see your clothes scattered out on the floor, I say I thought you would be home. You said you never would be gone. Every time I see the light not burning on the porch, I say I thought you would be home. You said you never would be gone, said you never would be gone. ~~_

Waves of guilt, regret and helplessness had coursed through him, threatening to take him under and he could ill afford it right then. He'd left to try to protect Fiona all those years ago. Michael had never wanted to be gone; he had been trying to free her, to take her away from that life. Did she know how hard he'd fought to find her again?

_~~Reach up to the sky, when nothing seems to go right, when nothing seems to go right for me.~~_

Had she left him now to protect him or herself? Where was she now? How was he ever going to find her when he could barely walk and the feds were sitting at the door?

As if in answer to his query, a massive fireball had erupted, rattling the windows and Michael had looked out in time to see his FBI tail screeching out of their parking space towards the blazing inferno that had previously been a warehouse along the waterfront.

He'd remembered the joy that used to light her face when things would explode as he'd thanked his lucky stars and his wild Irish rose for the exit strategy he'd so desperately needed as he'd grabbed his shirt, his shoes and that CD player he'd keep in her place.

()()

Mr. Westen awoke alone this time as well, though he was in far better physical condition than he had been in that memory he'd just relived. The relative improvement of his mental status was a matter of internal debate. He took in his surroundings, assured that the worst of the drugs had passed through his system and that he was truly awake this time, though the memory of what he'd done after leaving the hotel room lingered on.

He had gotten his former trainee, Lucy Chen, to keep and hide him while he recovered, watching all the news coverage he could about the warehouse fire. Besides telling him he'd looked better after Chechnya, an exaggeration he hadn't particularly appreciated, she had put him in contact with his savior from that prior disaster. If anyone could help him with this current burn notice fiasco, it was Lt. Commander Samuel Axe, Navy SEAL.

_Where __was__ Sam?_

Rather than rush to sit up, Michael surveyed the room again. It was a dimly lit, more accommodating than the average field hospital and better stocked. Where he was lying took up the center of the room and to his right was a doorway into what he assumed was the en suite and to his left was the open doorway led into the corridor.

He closed his eyes and focused on what he could hear. The room was silent as well as sterile. Through the open door, he could hear voices several rooms away, or so it seemed. Michael couldn't remember ever having been here before or even how he got here; however, the tightness and the throbbing in his scalp bespoke of his earlier injury.

Then he heard a blooming laugh echoing from a distance that the former spy would have known anywhere and his anxiety dissipated immediately. His comrade knew well enough when the laugh was genuine and when it was forced or a cover. .

_"Trust me," _Sam had said_._

Since Sam wasn't here hovering over him and apparently somewhere else nearby enjoying himself, it seemed reasonable that they were still safe and his injuries no longer precluded him from exploring his whereabouts as soon as he got his bearings.

Michael had learned to be cautious in how he dealt with his talents. He had to focus on what he was doing or what he wanted to remember, lest a million little details or a Daughtry song would rise up to distract him if he wasn't careful.

There had been a feminine presence, one or both of them hovering at the end of recognition. He tried to ascertain what he had known, what clues the past held.

Agent Westen had spent the hours while Sam had driven from Key West assembling together the evidence, the picture fragments, the news snippets, the underworld Intel, the whispers and the outright lies that Spencer had assembled and when he'd put the pieces together and realized what Fiona had been forced to do to survive, the guilt had shattered him and he'd retreated into the back seat and into his head.

_~~Will you listen to my story? It'll just be a minute. How can I explain? Whatever happened here, never meant to hurt you. How could I cause you so much pain?~~_

He'd been trying to take Fiona away from a brutal life of killing and retribution and instead he'd left her trapped in a web of violence and playing pawn to powerful people. How was he ever going to fix that? How could he ever get it back to how it used to be if the marker stone, that cold black hole sucking the light of his world, was to be believed?

_~~When I say I'm sorry, will you believe me? Listen to my story. Say you won't leave me~~_

Bile rose up in his throat and his fists clenched at his sides at the thought of his beloved Fiona being lost to him, dead and buried in the hard ground, for eight long years while he searched and hoped and fought and hung on by a thread, just waiting to see her.

_~~When I say I'm sorry, can you forgive me? When I say I'll always be there, will you believe, will you believe me?~~_

Another revelation followed hard on the heels of the last, he'd left her with a son, _his son, their son_, to care for and protect all on her own. The dark haired man felt the hot sting of tears gathering in his eyes against his will. Sean Michael McBride had grown up without even a memory for a father. How in the world would he ever set _that_ right?

_~~All the words that I come up with, they're like gasoline on flames. There's no excuse- No explanation. Believe me, if I could I'd undo what I did wrong, I'd give away all that I own.~~_

A bitter laugh, full of recrimination, tore from his lips. O'Neil had died, died because he'd told his boy the truth about the old man. Of all the things the bloody bastard could have been killed for, after all the times Thomas O'Neil claimed to stand for the truth,_ tha fooking idijit_ had died for the truth. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

_~~If I told you, I've been cleaning my soul and if I promised you, I'll regain control. Will you open your door and let me in? Take me for who I am and not for who I've been?..~~_

As he struggled to regain control of himself, another wave of sorrow washed over Michael, choking him with an irony he could almost taste it, setting his mind on fire. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and focused hard on every scrap of tradecraft and training he possessed to try to bring himself back under control.

If that feminine presence that had hovered over him here in Armand Andreani's estate was not that the long lost love of his life, then perhaps there was more than one child he had unintentionally abandoned? How was that possible? The voice of James Earle Jones hissed in the back of his brain – _A sister? You have a twin sister!_

And if _that_ were so, what could he possibly say or do that would make _that _right again?

_~~When I say I'm sorry, will you believe me? Listen to my story, say you won't leave me.~~_

As he clamped down the feeling of spiraling out of control, fighting it with all his strength, he realized that for once, instead of posing another question, the words running through his head were trying to give him the answer.

_~~When I say I'm sorry, can you forgive me? When I say I'll always be there, will you believe? Will you believe in me?_

_Sorry_ was something he never learned at home except to be sorry he had to be there;

_Sorry_ was something they didn't teach you in the Army, you weren't allowed to mess up;

_Sorry_ was something they didn't teach you in spy school, that was for the funeral afterwards;

_Sorry_ was exactly what he was going to have to figure out how to say to those precious people that he had wronged the most in his entire life and he needed to do it _now_!

_~~When I say I'm sorry, when I say I'm sorry, when I say I'm sorry. when I say I'm sorry.~~_

Michael McBride Westen opened his eyes and pushed himself gingerly into a sitting position. Taking a breath to steady himself, he turned toward the open door to the corridor, from whence a peal of almost familiar laughter came drifting into the room.

As he rose on shaky legs, the covert operative took a few balancing steps before slowly making his way towards the door, pausing at the entry way to stretch his previously inert limbs. He had a team of good men waiting in silence in Germany, he had his closest colleague and best friend waiting for him to make the next move, but _no one _was more important than those _two? _young people who'd been waiting a lifetime to meet their Da.

_~~Can you forgive me? When I say I will always be there, Will you believe, will you believe me?.~~_

_()()()()()_

**_A/N: I would like to apologize to everyone I left hanging while I was dealing with my domestic drama these past four months. The story will be finished soon and updated regularly. Up next will be a new story on the M page called "Who We Leave Behind" which will follow Michael from leaving home at 17 up until the events of Asset Management and then will continue on with various events after AM until the opening of Burn Notice. For those of you patiently waiting, Asset Management will start updating soon as well. Thank you to everyone who still read, reviewed and favorite while I've been offline._**

**_Many, many thanks and much love to amazing Amanda, equally awesome Purdy's Pal, the incredible Daisy Day and the lovely CJ for loving me and supporting me while I was going through my divorce. Thanks to Amanda for the BETA, to Purdy for helping with this chapter and all our research and to Daisy for making us all laugh every day. Many thanks to all the Burner Girls on Twitter for the shout outs and all the Burner Girls who post lovely pictures and comments on FB! _**


	8. Glenanne

"_**It is better to understand little than to misunderstand a lot**_." Anatole France

-00000-

_Andreani Estate, outside of Kildare, Ireland, December 2015, 15:57 GMT_

Sam Axe was famous for talking.

Of course, it was hard to look anything but chatty standing next to Michael Westen, especially these days.

Still, his gift of gab was legendary in intelligence circles, as was his ability to charm male and female alike. So, whether it was bromance or romance that was required to salvage the situation, former Commander Samuel T. Axe was more than capable of resolving it with a wisecrack or the quirk of an eyebrow. He was pretty effective with a right hook, a 2x4 or a semi-automatic weapon, too.

But while Sam might have been legendary for talking, it was actually his skill at listening that made him the intelligence asset and loving Lothario that he was. His ability to get people to open up to him was centered on his ability to not only pay attention to what people were saying, and what they were not saying, but also let the person know that he _was_ actually paying _strict_ attention to whatever they wanted to tell him, which frequently somehow managed to turn into exactly what he wanted to hear from them.

The older man had been using that particular part of his repertoire to its zenith these past few days with the McBride twins and their extended family. What he hadn't expected was that while he had been busy being fascinating and charismatic and steering conversation into avenues of intel gathering, he'd found himself being equally beguiled by his best friend's relatives, particularly his offspring. Sam had chuckled internally and often about who was playing whom.

The one-time navy medic had been concerned, and rightly so, about the number of times Mike's head had undergone percussive maintenance lately. Besides a nasty concussion, Sam had suspected that there was a long overdue case of nervous exhaustion that would probably manifest itself once the head injury had worn off. That meant that he had been at his buddy's bedside, or some close proximity thereto, for the last 72 hours. Amidst the parade of people that came through the room, Sam Axe was the one constant there.

Apparently, whatever had caused Sean Michael's abrupt exit from the kitchen, the matter had not yet been entirely resolved. The young man had come to take his sister away again to deal with whatever circumstances required her attention as well. Based on the looks she'd been shooting her sibling and the brief argument they'd had about her ability to look out for herself and his committing a homicide in her defense, Sam began to wonder how many _more_ jolts he was going to be able to take _himself_, never mind their father. He'd had bad feeling about who the now deceased "him" in question had been as well.

But his duty as he saw it, and the ex-SEAL was all about duty, had been to stay out of the way and let the big kids handle whatever game was afoot while he'd made sure that Mr. Westen stayed down and rested up. The covert operative needed sleep if he was going to be functional enough not to get one or both of them killed. That Mike had walked, or more accurately sprinted, straight into the ambush that had earned him a rifle butt to the temple had been warning enough that the dark haired man in question had been running too hard for far too long. Even super spy Michael Westen was a human being after all.

When he'd met his best friend's daughter for the first time, her da had picked that moment to try to stir. It hadn't taken an intelligence briefing for the older man to know that particular moment would be a spectacularly bad time for the former Mr. McBride to be informed he had abandoned not one, but two children. Fortunately, his brother in arms had heeded his warning to _lay flat and stay asleep right now _and the twins had subsequently gotten into an argument that momentarily had diverted them from wanting to have a conversation with their sire. Their departure had been something of a relief to Sam, who had felt nothing but sympathy for his pal right at that moment for what awaited him once awoken.

If he himself had been feeling exhausted from all the bombshells being dropped, then _shell shocked_ wouldn't begin to describe Michael's mental state once he'd been fully apprised of the situation. He'd kept a watchful eye on the prone form, noting that his colleague had actually taken him at his word that it was safe to slumber. Because that's _all _his associate had done save for the occasional grunt or groan as Sam had roused him enough to make sure that the injured man hadn't slipped into a comatose state unnoticed.

The ex-naval commander had also realized that he too was due for some shut-eye for a couple of hours right before midnight on their first day on the estate. Claire Michelle had resolved his dilemma when she'd floated into the room with a quiet grace that belayed the quick temper she had displayed earlier with her brother and had assured the American that she would keep watch over her father and call him if he was needed.

Mr. Axe had slept longer than he'd meant, but had been grateful for the 80 or so winks, as the next day had seen the fatigued faux Irishman snooze through the entire day, despite the installation of a saline IV and a catheter at some point while Sam had been unconscious in the next room. The raven haired young woman at her father's bedside had then informed their guest that her Uncle Liam, a doctor in his own right, had undertaken those measures in the early morning hours before he'd had to depart to take care of business elsewhere. And since Mike had been unavailable for questioning, the interrogation of Sam Axe had started in earnest that morning.

Sean Michael was nowhere to be seen, but his sibling had more than made up for his absence, pressing his long-time friend for details about where and how he had come to be acquainted with her daddy and what they had been up to since the dark haired man's release from prison. If the older man could have been said to be conversant with tap dancing around the truth, then it could truly be said that the ex-SEAL gave a virtuoso performance that day. Mr. Westen's sole contribution had been to occasionally moan in places where the questions got tough, as if he'd known Sam was floundering, which always drew the young lady's attention back to comforting her da.

During those times, the Irishwoman had talked quietly to her dad then, filling him in on all the things in her life that the man had missed and the touch of Claire's hand and her soft melodic voice had seemed to put his brother from another mother at ease. Looking on as his daughter had carded her fingers through her father's black hair so like her own, tracing lightly over the fresh stitches while she had grasped one large inert paw in her own small hand, almost felt like too much of an intrusion on an intensely private moment. But the exhausted operative's occasional verbal outbursts, small as they were, let the naval medic know that his best friend wasn't in a coma, that there was no further need to rouse him to check and that was a very good thing.

As the day wore on, Claire Michelle had given way to the grand dame of the household, Claire Saoirse Glenanne Sullivan Fitzpatrick O'Donnell, the much married and equally widowed woman, who was her great niece's namesake and sister-in-law to the girl's maternal grandmother, and now just the 'Other Mrs. Glenanne' to all who knew her socially. Having lost all her own children to the Cause, she ferociously defended her deceased brother's offspring and heirs.

Sam had recognized the formidable female force of nature from their encounter in the kitchen with their hostess. This time, she'd also brought toddy for him and another plate of sandwiches. The girl's 'Gran' had refused to take 'no' for an answer until both the conscious people in the room had eaten. Then she had sent the tired and slightly truculent teenager who'd been up all night to bed and brooked no excuse.

The American had the feeling this Mrs. Glenanne had more inside intel than anyone else in the household and would be his best resource on his mission. While he still wanted a long talk with Sean, that particular Irishman had been unavailable until further notice and again Mr. Axe had a sneaking suspicion as to why.

"_I remember whot she wa like befer McBride came along," the aged woman had commented, patting his unconscious friend's cheek affectionately, much to Sam's surprise. "They like ta fergit, but our girl wa' headed fer an early grave, so she wa'." _

Auntie Claire filled in a number of the blanks as to what was going on in the household without expecting much of a reply in return, as well as letting Sam know her fondness for him personally, and his companion, was not held by all members of the clan. In fact, she was one of their few supporters besides the twins.

"_I know McBride wa' doin' whot he thought best fer me girl. I don' fault him fer thot. It wa' nae his fault the whole world wa' conspirin' against ya bringing him home. Jus' steer clear o' Maeve fer now though. Me brother's bride's got some ideas in har head, whot wit' har being wit' Fiona an' the twins most o' the time she wa' in France, thot probably won't do fer someone in his condition right now. She might kill him without meanin' ta… But I'll have t'be mad at ya when she's about, ya know?" _she'd added with a conspiratorial wink of her bright green eyes_. "Cuz ya have t'stick with yar family, even when thar a bit far afield o' whot's really goin' on."_

The former commander had been pleased to get the information he had so desperately needed, but he had at the same time been suspicious that she had given it up so readily. This Mrs. Glenanne's mind was obviously still as vibrant as her bright red hair despite her years, so he'd doubted he'd been putting anything over on her. Then it had dawned on the ex-SEAL that the twins' great aunt clearly had more than adequate intelligence on himself and his associate. As Sam mulled over her answers and the questions she hadn't asked, he had a fairly accurate hunch that _this Claire_ had been the confidante of the number two in command of this _other _criminal organization they had been pursuing, the one that had apparently finished off their previous foes.

As the skies had darkened outside and their second day on the Andreani estate had come to a close, Sean Michael had made his reappearance. The auburn-haired teenager was almost sullen and a far cry from the spirited, if occasionally subdued, young man that his dad's best friend had met yesterday. He'd informed Sam succinctly that he could go get some shut eye in the next room while he would watch over his father.

The taciturn youth had kept a vigil at his dad's side, sitting on a stool leaning somewhat precariously against the wall by the head of the bed frame, never touching Mike as his sister had. But not once did the teen's gaze stray from the slack profile of his sire as he'd talked quietly to him.

As the older man had watched the father and son, so alike with their shared features and body language, he couldn't help but feel immensely sad for what both of them had lost by never knowing one another. Settling quickly into slumber as only as an ex-SEAL could, Sam had wondered what could possibly happen tomorrow to make this mission any crazier than it already was. Then he'd decided he didn't want to know.

()()()()()()

On the third day, Michael McBride/Westen had not arisen from the dead.

No, his best friend had slept on through the procession of people who dropped by alone and in groups of two or three to visit. Not to say that the dark haired man had been completely still. There'd been enough murmurs and muttering to indicate he might surface from the depths of slumber, as well as occasional stirring when Sam had checked to make sure his injured associate had been clear of the worst of his concussion. But Mike's momentary flirtations with consciousness had quickly passed, much to the disappointment of those assembled when the man at the center of all their attention sank back into the unresponsiveness of long overdue rest.

So, of course, Mr. Axe had then invariably found _himself_ as the center of _all _their attentions.

The twins had tag-teamed him around mid-day and the vague answers regarding the exact location of Mike's prison and their post incarceration activities, the gist of which being why Daddy hadn't just come the hell home as soon as he was freed, had no longer proved sufficient. As such, Sam had found himself longing to get his hands on Sean Glenanne, especially around the throat, as he'd learned the penitentiary story had been their uncle's doing.

If the duo hadn't been bad enough, the appearance of Maeve O'Keefe Glenanne, who'd subsequently taken over the questioning, had the ex-SEAL mentally calculating exactly how much his insensible friend owed him in recompense for his efforts on the raven haired man's behalf over the last twenty five minutes of cross-examination, never mind the last twenty five years of combat pay earned.

The temperature drop in the small infirmary had been palpable when the small, almost bird-like woman with sharp features and auburn hair shot through with silver had approached the bed and had laid her fiery blue green orbs on her supposed son-in-law and his traveling companion. If Claire Senior could have been said to be an intimidating presence, then the other queen bee of the clan was downright terrifying and justly deserved her status as one of the most dangerous women in the PIRA throughout the Troubles. Sam had no trouble at all envisioning her with an M1 Garand in her grip.

"_So ya say thot McBride wa' nae in a cell, but thot he wa' bein' coerced into doin' the biddin' o' those thot we war hidin' fram all those years in France, while he wa' tryin' t'find a way t'get the family outta the country?"_

At the conclusion of his explanation for the first eight years of Mr. McBride's absence, Maeve's disbelief had been as plain as the dark scowl on her face. The twins' reaction to the fact their father had not in fact been held in irons while they were living under cover in Marseilles as the Descoteaux family had been even more troubling. Sean Michael had started to bolt, only to have been restrained by the hasty hold of his sister's hand.

"_Well, not actually, but mostly that, yes."_

The ex-SEAL had fast been running out of maneuvering room. _How_ _on the earth was he going to explain why the burned spy had not returned to Ireland following the homicidal actions of their various enemies?_ So it had been with immense gratitude that he had welcomed the previously quiet 'other Mrs. Glenanne' into the conversation.

"_Ya've a talent fer talkin' outta both sides o' yar mouth, Mr. Axe," Auntie Claire had added helpfully, eyebrows arched. "But I think tis best we wait fer Sean t'come back an' then we'll be having the truth."_

His buddy's involvement in the matter had been to groan in pain loud and long enough to interrupt the interrogation. That in turn had allowed the head of the current household to shoo the teenagers out of the room with the instruction to find their Uncle Liam. While they were waiting for the eldest surviving Glenanne male to put in an appearance, both the dowager empresses enlightened Sam as to how little they thought of the person purportedly in charge of the family estate and the international criminal organization he ran.

And for that reason, Sam had been indisposed in the en suite when Liam had finally shown up, such that the medical man had subsequently delivered his instructions verbally through the thick wooden door.

"_Ya kin give ham sumthin' fer tha pain in a couple o' hours, but check his eyes first and don' mind how much whinin' he does. I've seen ham a feck load worse." _

However, as the day had become the evening and his wounded compatriot had roused more frequently, the pain level evident in the dark haired man's low moans said that his colleague was now feeling all the knocks to his head and bumps and bruises on the rest of his body. Finally, Mr. Axe had taken out a pen light and peeled back an eyelid, performing medicine once again under the watchful eye of Sean Michael McBride.

"_Just checking your eyes, Mikey… That was quite a whack you took… well, several of them actually,"_ Sam had chuckled as Mr. Westen had tried to avoid the contact. _"Looks like you've gotten past the concussion, brother." _He'd been relieved to be able to say so_. "I think it'll be okay to give you something for the pain now." _Sam had administered the injection provided, waiting patiently for the effects to be evident in his companion's visage, and then leaving younger McBride settled once again at the elder's bedside.

"_You two play nice while I'm gone,"_ he'd advised with a smirk before gathering another change of clothing that had been left for him and then disappearing into the restroom. When Mr. Axe had returned, cleaner and happier, he'd caught the low words that he'd been certain the teen had not meant for him to hear.

"_Why dinnae ya come back, man? Whot wa' so important thot yar family had t'go beggin' t'thot bastid—"_

"_It wasn't like that,"_ Sam had said softly as he'd approached his best friend's bedside.

Even in the dim light of the room, the ex-SEAL's still sharp sight had been able to spy the mist gathering in those blue green eyes. The emotions responsible for the moisture had mixed there on the young man's face, but had still been evident individually: anger, sorrow, frustration, regret, disappointment, longing…

"_Whot wa' it like then? Ya tell me plain, sar, if it's in ya t'do such a thing. If he dinnae go t'prison, how wa' it he couldnae leave? He wa' fightin' against them whot meant t'harm us, or so I've been told me whole life! An' whot am I t' know except whot I've been told and who am I t'believe? Cuz it appears me family's lied t'me and so have-"_

"_Look, I don't why your family said what they said, but I'm sure they had what they thought were good reasons," _Mr. Axe had countered and then had shrugged_. "I mean, in their defense, you probably don't have all the pieces to the puzzle to know why, right? All I know, fella, is that your Dad there…" _Sam had gestured with his chin towards the prone figure between them._ "He left here with every intention of coming back to get your mom and that's all he thought about from the minute he took off was getting back here and lemme tell ya something, son, a lot of good people died trying to help him do just that. Now, I know there's been plenty of victims and villains in this mess. But I can tell one thing for sure, your old man wasn't one of the bad guys."_

"_Aye…" _Sean Michael had sighed heavily before biting his bottom lip so far down that it had disappeared. _"So I've been told…" _he had repeated, exhaling noisily as he'd rubbed a hand over his brow.

"_You were told right, kid, and don't ever forget it. No matter what else he is, your dad's one of the good guys." _

()()()()()()()

A very disconcerting sound woke Sam up late the next morning.

It was bad enough that he had overslept and woke up groggy, abandoning his post as it were. More troubling was the fact that apparently someone in the next room was crying. After last night with Sean Michael, the ex-SEAL's own nerves were already on edge over the sorry state of what his colleague had come 'home' to. While he was trying to shake off the stupor of sleep, the most alarming aspect of the lamenting presented itself when he finally realized that it was Mike who was doing it.

Mr. Axe arrived in the infirmary to find Claire Michelle, who had taken her brother's place at some point during the past ten hours, frantically trying to soothe the semi-conscious figure in front of her.

"Oh, dinnae do thot, no... Shhhh…" Anxious hands stroked his buddy's tear-stained face and clasped his hand. "Shhhh…. dinnae weep now. It'll be fine, it'll all be fine."

Those startlingly familiar cobalt blue eyes, bright with gathering wetness and concern, stared straight up into his sympathetic brown ones.

"Whot's wrong with him, Mr. Axe? Why won' he wake up?"

Sam had his own theories about that, but none he cared to share at the moment. As he reached a hand out towards his best friend, the raven haired man let out a deep stuttering gasp and seemed to collapse in on himself, oblivious to the world around him and caught up in his own head once again.

"He's just completely worn out, little missy, and your Dad's taken one too many hits on the noggin lately," the one-time navy medic advised. He circled around the bed and came to stand in back of the young woman, laying a large comforting hand on her shoulder. "But he's going to be fine, I promise."

"Not if Mammy has har way wit' ham," the girl's uncle countered as he came through the doorway.

Having previously missed the doctor in the house during the man's prior visits to change the bags which provided his insensate associate with hydration and removed the byproducts thereof, the former naval commander was duly daunted by the force of threat Mr. Glenanne radiated just by existing. His colleague looked positively relaxed and giddy compared to the _Über_ intensity of his proposed in-laws_. Jeez, no wonder Mike's sleeping this one out. I'd rather be on the beach with a blonde holdin' a mojito myself right about now._

"Off with ya, lass," Liam rumbled, stepping into the spot Sam had just vacated behind his niece. "Tis man's work war about now, so thar's a good girl, run along. Tell Gran and tha others thot yar Da'll be up soon."

Claire Michelle looked like she wanted to argue, but wisely held her tongue and did as she was bidden.

As he observed the slightly older man operate from a respectful distance, Mr. Axe was impressed with the skill and the speed with which the PIRA medic had removed the various tubes connected to his associate. After rearranging Mr. Westen's clothing, covering and placing a bandage over the IV site, the Irishman fixed the American with a cold stare that had brought lesser men to their knees.

"I dinnae know whether t'thank ye or kill ye whar ya stand fer bringin' ham back after all this."

"Well, alrighty then," Sam chuckled nervously. "In that case, you're welcome, fella. Hey, what's that you're giving him?" he questioned as Liam loaded a syringe full of another clear liquid.

"Me baby brudder will be along any time now. I suspect ya'll _both_ be wantin' a word wit' ham."

Sam was going to take his opportunity to question Mr. Glenanne privately prior to lighting into his younger brother. However, before he could finish crossing the distance between them, the man's flame haired older but not elderly aunt bustled in and grabbed the ex-SEAL firmly by the forearm.

"Come along then," she commanded. "I've a fish pie jus' fer ya fresh outta the oven. Tis always best when it's first hot." She looked from her nephew, to Mike and then back to him. "Nothin' gonna happen t'yar mate thar whilst yer havin' a meal."

And that was how it came to be that Sam was tucking into a mighty fine piece of home cooking that he'd reminisced fondly about to Claire Glenanne a few days ago, from back in his time stationed in London between special forces missions, when Michael Westen staggered into the pantry, looking dazed and confused and plenty worse for the wear.

()()()()()()()()()

Sam Axe let loose with one of the first hearty belly laughs that had left his lips in what seemed like ages when the white ceramic dish, fork and napkin were placed upon the table.

"Oh yeah! Now _that_ is how fish pie is supposed to taste," the ex-commander declared after savoring the first bite of correctly cooked cod swimming in a cream sauce under waves of delectable mashed potatoes.

Auntie Claire smiled as he continued to chew with a look of bliss on his face. It had been decades since he'd had this particular delicacy and even longer since he had the privilege of having it made properly. For all that Mike's in-laws were a crew of crazies, they definitely knew how to cook.

"Oh, yeah, this is what I'm talkin' about, my compliments to the chef."

"Chef?" she snorted. "I'm jus' an old country cook, so I am."

"You are a woman of many talents, Nan." He guffawed again, realizing what he had just called her. She so thoroughly reminding of his own maternal grandmother, who ran the Wisconsin family dairy farm where he spent his youthful summers with an iron fist firmly tucked in a velvet glove, that it was hard not to.

"Aye, thot I am. Ya'd do well t'remember thot, Mr. Axe."

Mrs. Glenanne treated him to a hard stare, reminding the ex-SEAL of who she could be if she needed to. But then a sly smile graced her face and a merry twinkle entered into those bright green eyes. "Tis 'Gran' they call me about this place, sar, though I'm nae sure ya've earned thot privilege yet."

Sam chucked again and then closed his eyes, inhaling deeply the heady aroma wafting up from the dish.

They were back in the place where they had first come to, where he'd occasionally taken his meals. Sitting at the head of the long pine table opposite his hostess, in what he had learned they referred to as "the pantry," Mr. Axe was preparing to scoop up another bite when the doors near the entryway opened and Sean sauntered in wearing a snow covered anorak.

"So, the shite has well and truly hit the fan now, hasn't it?" the Irishman remarked, shrugging out of the heavy coat to hang it on a hook. "Me phone's fair exploded from all the texts and messages."

"Ya might try answerin' it every now and ag'in, lad," the elderly woman retorted. "Come an' have a seat. Our guest has been waitin' t'have a word with ya fer days now."

"Whar's Mikey boy then?" Sean queried as he took the seat his aunt had just vacated in order to serve up another slice of lunch for the new arrival.

"Sleeping off _another_ concussion," the ex-SEAL advised in a clipped tone. "And what the hell was the idea of dumping us out at Armand's house and then disappearing on us for four days?"

"I've been running around like a blue arse fly, thot's whot, not thot tis any o' yar business."

"How's that, pal? That's a fine way to thank the man who saved your life. Oh, and while we're playing twenty questions, what the hell did you think you were doing telling everyone Mike was in jail? Do you have any idea how much trouble—"

"And d'ya have any idea whot hell it wa' tryin' t'keep her from chasing across the Atlantic after ham? Not thot it did me any good t'try. She still went over thar and got herself burnt alive!"

"Thot's enough outta the pair o' ya now," Claire ordered in a firm voice as she put a shallow bowl filled with delectable fish in front of her youngest nephew. "Let the man eat and ya do the same."

While the food was still beyond good, the brief argument with Mike's one time asset had spoiled the mood. Sam searched his brain for a way to get the conversation back on track and get some answers.

"Look, fella, all I know is the people Mike has been trying to get out from under for the last seven years have all disappeared and it looks like the guy whose kitchen we're all sitting in was responsible."

"Ya don' know the half o' it," Sean declared as his auntie set drinks down in front of the both of them.

"Damn straight, skippy, that's why we're here."

"Whot happened t'McBride?"

"He had another hit to the head with a rifle butt after you ran off and left us out in the snow."

"Well, I bloody well saved both yar lives. I meant fer McBride t'have a word wit' his family befer havin' a go with thot bastid Andreani. Except I come t'find thot Armand wa' planning on killin' the pair o' ya befer it wa' all said and done. Truth be told, Sean Michael is the real reason war all still breathin' now."

"Whoa, whoa, hold on there, pal. Why would Armand finish off the people who were trying to kill us just to whack us the minute we got here?"

"I suspect he wa' plannin' on gloatin' a bit first. Truly, it wa' his ego thot got the sonuvabitch killed."

"Aye, our boy went straight t'ninety when he found out whot wa' goin' on," Mrs. Glenanne added.

"Sean Michael shot and killed Armand Andreani… what, four days ago?" Sam asked directly.

"Aye," the woman on Sam's right confirmed. "The lad always seems t'know when sumthin' is going on, so he does. He went off like a volcano when his sister had gone t'have words with _Mr._ _Andreani_…" She spat his name out like a curse. "Over whot he wa' planning t'do and the nobber tried t'have his way wit' our girl."

_Fair enough_… Sam could easily see what probably had happened under those circumstances. But that didn't explain the young Irishman's other activities. "Just like he blew up Thomas O'Neil?" he pressed.

Sean snorted. "O'Neil had it comin' and thar's no one t'say otherwise. If the ass hadn't tried outing McBride t' his son, he might still be breathing. But the wanker never did know when t'shut his gob. "

"Lemme get this straight, Armand Andreani was the one that kept tipping off—"

"Now yar suckin' diesel, man; thot devil himself wa' behind the whole blasted thing. Every blessed time I stuck me head out t'find McBride, thot fooker would make a call and someone would come t'shoot it off, jus' like O'Neil did."

"But he was hiding the kids out in France under assumed names and then, after Mike was burned, he brought them all back here to live in his house under his name? Why would he do that if-"

Mr. Axe knew the confusion was plain on his face from the looks his hosts were giving him.

"He wanted Fi fer himself and the wee ones, too," Claire explained. "But he couldnae do it openly. We came t'suspect, but we dinnae know fer certain back then, thot he wa' the reason behind all o' it."

"He wa' always thar, offerin' t'lend a helpin' hand wit' our troubles, except he wa' causing most o' the trouble, the bloody wretch," Mr. Glenanne concluded. "Thot's why he wa' also using whoever McBride had pissed off back in his spy days t'keep ham fram comin' home. Once O'Neil'd outed him, Mike couldnae jus' come back and I'm guessin' those other bastids ya war hunting had the pair o' ya tied up thar as well."

"But why lie to the kids and tell them their dad was in jail?"

"D'ya take me fer, a squealer? Whot wa' I supposed t'tell 'em, boyo? Ya keep blatherin' on about the truth. Well, the truth wa' thot he wa' a damned spy. Tis no matter thot he come har t'help us put down the Real IRA and put 'em outta business. Jayzuz, yer thick! D'ya want me t'tell them thot?"

The sound of the door that went out into the kitchen swiftly swinging back shut was the only sign that Sean's declaration of his friend's true profession had been overheard by ears that ought not to have.

"Ack, Mother Mary and all the saints preserve us. We'd best pull our socks up then," Auntie Claire sighed. "He's off to the other side, so he is, and the lad's not gonna be satisfied 'til he's heard it all."

"Why is Sean Michael running like the hounds o' hell be on his heels?" Maeve inquired as she ambled through the entryway that her grandson had just flown out of, worry etching another line in her face.

"Yar boy har has gone and let the cat outta the bag," her flare haired sister-in-law answered with a jerk of her head towards her youngest son.

"Sean Connor Glenanne, whot have ya done now?" his mother barked while hanging up her own coat.

Sam quickly shoveled a large spoonful of his swiftly cooling his treat in his mouth and chewed happily while all the negative attention was off him for the moment.

The man in question let out a sharp exhalation of frustrated breath. "Whot I always do, feck it all up!"

"Ack, Sean boy, thar's plenty o' blame t'go around and many hands thot made a right hayms o' it. I—"

Claire stopped talking mid-sentence when the other door into the pantry, the one that led back into the massive mansion, eased open and four sets of eyes fixed upon the figure that appeared in the entrance.

"By all thot's holy, thar's the chief architect o' _all_ this mess!"

The tiny woman charged towards the disheveled man, whose coal black hair was sticking up at odd angles from a massive case of bed head and whose dark heavy clothing was wrinkled and bunched up in weird places, before Sam could get up from his hard bench seat tucked under the pantry table.

"Michael McBride," she growled low, her expression and her body language screaming bloody murder. "Tis a long time I've been wantin' and waitin' t'get me hands on ya."

Sam and Claire both were hustling across the enormous space with Sean in their wake, the former Navy man almost skidding to a stop in his haste to lay hands himself on his long time compatriot, who was staggering under the antipathy of the incensed grandmother.

"Whot kind o' man goes off and abandons his family t'the likes of Armand Andreani t'care fer them? Whar in the name o' the blessed virgin have ya been, man? D'ya have any idea at all whot's happen t'har while ya've been off doin' Lord knows whot only God himself knows whar all these years?"

"Okay, Mikey, let's take a seat there, brother," Sam suggested, getting between the combatants and maneuvering the dazed man away from the Irish assault battalion.

"Ack, Maeve, go easy on ham fer a moment, will ya? Thar'll be plenty o' time t'teach ham the error o' his ways. But ya cannae kill him before he gets a chance t'see—"

"Fi…?" His best friend breathed out the question with a trembling voice made rougher from disuse.

The older American recognized immediately who the female form at at the far end of the room was, but he also knew what Mike thought he was seeing: decades of dreaming fulfilled right before his watery eyes.

As the hood was thrown back from the anorak and the slender fingers undid the fasteners, Sam felt the tremor that ran through his associate's body. When at last the coal black hair was freed from the woolen cap and those looking-in-a-mirror cobalt blue eyes made contact, he heard the ragged gasp that tore from Mr. Westen's lips.

Sam sensed his own eyes welling up as his buddy took two cautious steps forward before Claire Michelle had flown across the distance between father and daughter and enveloped her shaking sire in a tight bear hug. Mike wrapped his own arms around the teenager, pressing his cheek to the top of her head and then both were crying, water flowing freely from lids squeezed shut and running down both their faces. It was all the other three people in the room could do to keep from joining in.

"I'm so sorry…" his brother in arms whispered into the girl's raven hair, repeating the apology again and again like a prayer of repentance, swaying slightly as they held onto one another for support.

Time seemed to stand still within that place, as the warmth of the moment belayed the cold in the air and the frigid temperatures outside the tall windows, where the snow was falling gently to the ground. But, as with all good things, that precious moment came to end and, as with all things Glenanne, that ending was abrupt and violent.

The young woman was reaching up to wipe the tears from her dad's face while his large hands were thumbing the moisture from hers, those exactly the same orbs locked together in fascination and adoration when the wooden door at the far end of the prep kitchen flew open, slamming against the wall with bang that made them all jump involuntarily and zero in on the potential threat.

Sean Michael McBride came barreling through, striding across the hard floor like a man on a mission. But Mike was too overcome by the tidal wave of emotion crashing through him to read his offspring's intent, which was plain as day to all the other adults present. Nonetheless, his son still managed to land a particularly vicious sucker punch to his dad's stomach before anyone else could prevent it.

"Ya sonuvabitch!" the teenager screamed at the doubled over form of his long lost father. "It wa' true! Every fookin' word thot bastid said wa' true! I killed a man fer tellin' me the truth about ya!"

Unfortunately for him, Sean got careless as he hurriedly approached his namesake with the intent of intervening in the attack. The enraged youth got off an upper cut to the jaw that snapped the older Irishman's head back hard. As he turned to resume exacting his retribution upon his elder with his knuckles, Sam caught the fist that was aimed at his best buddy's head in his own meaty hand. But before the former naval commander could do more than start to utter a warning to the young man, Sean Michael's sister slapped him so hard across the face it was that teen's turn to be blind-sided.

"Don' ya dare lay a hand t'him, ya idjit! Ya don' know whot—" Claire Michelle shrieked.

"THOT'S ENOUGH!" thundered the matriarch of the clan. "Stop acting the maggot, the lot o' ya! Now, all o' ya will be sittin' down quietly at thot table or I'll be knowing the reason why! MOVE!"

Even Mr. Axe found himself obeying the flame haired woman with the suddenly flaring temper. He helped Mike to his feet and eased him onto the end of the bench where the remainder of his now nearly cold repast had sat awaiting him. Pushing the dish aside with a gentle swipe of his hand, Sam left space for his friend to prop his elbows onto the flat wooden surface and rest his dark head in his hands while the former medic checked to make sure all the stitches were still intact and healing up.

Maeve had separated the twins and Sean had come to his senses enough to take hold of his niece while his mother had taken charge of her grandson, settling the boy down opposite them at the table. The girl came to sit next to her dad and then her uncle moved toward the head of the table where Claire Glenanne was glaring all the participants in the domestic drama, daring them to start up again.

"Thot's better," she announced, somehow managing to stare down at all of them despite her relatively short stature. "We'll be having the tale told now by him whot's been in the middle o' all this."

And Sam fixed his eyes on the man behind her, as did the remainder of the group while Mike continued to keep his face buried behind his spread fingers as he fought off the nausea that the ex-SEAL knew for a fact would have come from being gut punched.

"McBride thar, he wa' a spy," Mr. Glenanne admitted bluntly, but continued quickly before any of his audience could interrupt. "But he warn't har workin' against us, he wa' har t'help stop bastids like O'Neil an' the rest of the Real IRA fram destroyin' the peace process and startin' another thirty years o' bloody carnage and he saved me sister…" Sean choked up momentarily whilst Mike stifled a sob with only partial success. "He saved har and I know thot he loved me sister with all thot he wa', else I woulda killed ham fer sure once I knew whot he wa'. McBride only left yar mammy t'try to go an' get permission t'take har wit' ham outta Ireland, an' away from all killing and the violence, and I know it broke his heart t'go."

Claire Michelle laid an arm around her dad's shaking shoulders. "I know ya dinnae want t'go and leave har."

"I'm sorry," Mr. Westen whispered, finally raising his head, his red rimmed eyes looking directly his son's, which were brimming with hot tears and hotter emotions.

"Whot wa' thot?" Sean Michael demanded. "D'ya think ya can jus' say 'sorry' and it's all fine then?"

Sam watched with growing sympathy as the man on his right struggled to do the hardest thing that Michael Westen could ever be asked to do.

"It's nae like thot," his sister countered, locking gazes with her brother across the table, the imprint of her hand glowing red on her sibling's cheek. "He wa' doin' whot he had t'do. Listen t'me—"

"No, ya listen!" he shouted his twin down. "Ya've never killed a man in cold blood! Ya don' know—"

"I do," their father confessed, interrupting their argument. "Many times over, it's something that changes you…. It never leaves you. Sometimes…sometimes I can still hear them scream…"

Sam looked in amazement at the haggard profile of his friend as the man swallowed thickly and then drew in a harsh breath. They were both military men, the both knew the price such actions exacted from the people performing them. But he'd never heard Mike discuss such things openly and certainly not without a lot of alcohol as the catalyst. In fact, this was the most he'd _ever_ heard from him on this particular subject.

"Well, ta much fer helpin' me learn thot lesson, da!" his offspring sniped, his attention on his sire again. "So, ya expect me t'fergive ya, jus' like thot then, while yar sitting thar talkin' like yar English masters and-"

"No... no, I don't… I'm not going to insult you by pretending to be Irish when you know I'm not and I'm not going to pretend that ten thousand life times is enough to make up for what I've done…."

"No, no, don' say thot. It wa' nae yar fault…" Claire Michelle countered softly, taking his hand with her free one.

"No, he's right," Mike told his daughter plainly, his voice almost cracking. "I did what I came here to do, but I left with one mission and that was to get Fi… your mom… out of Ireland and I failed miserably."

"Hey, Mikey, it wasn't like you—"

"No, Sam, it doesn't matter that Fiona and I had enough enemies to choke every horse on this property." The dark haired man looked from the man on his left to the angry young man and his grandmother across the table. "It doesn't matter that I was trying to protect them by not coming home until every one of those enemies was dead or disabled."

The ex-SEAL laid a hand on his shoulder as Mike fought to get his emotions under control. The hostile faces opposite them did not soften while the ex-spy worked hard not to break down as he professed his guilt. Sam knew that the people surrounding them had no clue how extraordinary this event was or how little his colleague spoke of anything that wasn't tactical. Especially _anything_ that had to do with _his feelings_.

"What matters is that I wasn't here… and there's nothing I can ever to do make that right…"

"Hey, hey, easy there, brother," the older man counseled, turning his gaze from his buddy to scan the stares of the other members of the clan assembled around them. "He's right, guys. That organization that we've been fighting, that pack of assholes who thought they could run the world from their cushy offices, they had their sights on you, all of you… that was the reason you were hiding out in France, remember? That's the reason we hadda take them down and that's the reason he wasn't here. He couldn't lead them straight to your doorstep. And that's the reason your mom agreed to—"

"Thot wa' me own fault," Sean interjected. "I lied t'her, t'me own sister, t'keep her from chasin' after yar da. Cuz she had the pair o' ya t'worry about. Cuz every bastid on this island fram O'Neil on down wa' lookin' t'hurt ya, t'use ya against yar mammy and ya both know whot happened t'her when she did go after yar da. She wa'—" It was Sean's turn to be unable to finish, choking on his words as a lone tear broke free.

"No one wanted whot happened, me loves," Auntie Claire said quietly. "Whether they balloxed it up or nae, they war only tryin' t'protect ya. Come on, then…" The matriarch took Sean Michael by the elbow and pulled him to his feet, gesturing with a nod of her head for Mr. Westen to get up as well. "Whot ever happened yesterday tis in the past an' ya cannae change it. Yar da is finally home now, boy, and ya can beat the shite outta each other if thot's whot the _pair o' ya_ want t'do, but ya'll do it _tomorrow_."

She looked up expectantly at father and son before taking a step back, causing Sean to back up as well. As both their bottom lips disappeared simultaneously under their teeth, both the Claire's laughed lightly at the mirror expressions of discomfort. Mike held out his right hand slowly, but his son hesitated to take it and that truly didn't satisfy his daughter.

"Tis a good thing Mammy's nae har t'see this," the dark haired young woman stated, leaving her seat and taking them both into her arms, forcing them together. "She'd kick both yar arses."

Sam could see the effect that the mention of his long lost love had on his companion. Choking back a sob, Mike wrapped his arms around his two children, the girl accepting the embrace, the boy fighting it momentarily before surrendering as well. Soft sniffles from the trio echoed in the suddenly quiet space.

"D'ya want t'go an' see Mammy now?" Claire Michelle asked when her father finally released his hold on them to swipe away the salt water from his eyes. "She's just on the other side."

He gave her a very sad smile and nodded, still chewing his lips and trying to get a handle on himself. Sam felt the weight of Mike's world settle on his own heart, empathizing with the loss the man obviously felt.

"Ya have a lot t'talk about," Auntie Claire said sagely. "We'll see t'it thot yer not disturbed."

There was slightly puzzled look in those bloodshot blue eyes as his associate stared out of the window at the snow, which was now falling heavier than before. "I guess I'll be needing a coat at the least if I'm going to be out there for any length of time."

"Out whar, man?" Sean chimed in.

"The apple grove… isn't that where the marker is?"

"Whar the marker is—? D'ya think she wa' buried out thar? D'ya nae hear me before, boyo? Armand put thot thing thar in the garden when she went t'Miami t'fetch ya back. She wouldnae let me take it up once she took up workin' fer thot bastid again. She's on the other side."

"The other side?" the ex-spy echoed, his confusion plain. Sam could almost hear the gears grinding while the dark haired man tried to make sense of what he was being told.

"The other side o' the compound…? This is our side har, whar we live, thot's the other side whar the business is done and nae the twain shall meet. I thought ya war some sort o' master spy and ya don' know about nae mixin' business wit' yar family home?"

"Fi's over there… in Armand's business offices… right now?" he stammered.

"Jayzuz, McBride, yer thicker than I remembered. Let's go."

Sam sat down heavily on the bench, several of the pieces of the puzzle coming together at once, as Mike moved hesitantly at first, but quickly picking up speed and urgency, following Sean towards the door to his future. The ex-SEAL stared blankly at his cold supper before his hostess removed the dish, calling over her shoulder for everyone to sit down while she served up some warm food and hot drink.

"Well, I guess yar Da is har t'stay this time," Maeve said on a sigh, looking from one grandchild to the other. "And ya, sar," she continued, turning her eagle eyes upon the lone American at the table. "Whot will ya be doing now thot McBride has come home?"

And Sam Axe, a man famous around the world for talking, had absolutely no idea what to say.

()()()()()()()()()()

_**A/N: **__Multiple mea culpa's are in order for letting this hang so long! There's a reason I do series of one-shots and not chapter stories! Thank you to everyone who follows or fav'd this story for your patience and welcome to some of the new readers. I will make every effort to finish this in a timely manner now. There are only two chapters left to go, so hopefully it will be completed well before 2014 ends =)_

_A quick shout out to __**ObsidianEmpress**__ for consulting on the disgruntled teenager character of Sean Michael and providing some of his best lines. I forgot to do this in Chapter 7, so I must do it now or suffer her eternal wrath (kidding… sort of ~LOL). Much love to lovely PCC ladies and my continual and never ending gratitude to everyone who takes time to read as well as review. Writers live on feedback, so it is much appreciated. A special shout out to my writing partner and the other half of __**Jedi Pal**__, the incredible __**Purdy's Pal **__who has helped with all the intel on all things Irish in all stories, mine and ours!_

_Speaking of __**Jedi's Pal**__, starting on June 12__th__, when we should have had a Season 8, our next series, __Life with Larry__, the inside scoop on all things Larry Sizemore, will premiere after #burnnoticeclub at 10 PM and post regularly in that time slot until mid-season break. If any of you don't know what #burnnoticeclub is, there are #burners watching DVD's (or Netflix) and live tweeting starting at 9PM Eastern time every Thursday. This Thursday we will be watching __Long Way Back__. Check out Storify by Jane Grafham to see what fun we have!_


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